By Any Other Name
by Clockwork Mockingbird
Summary: Isabelle French worked for Mr. Gold and everything was fine until he started calling her Belle, because then she started calling him Richard, and it all spiraled out of control from there. In Storybrooke, you have to fight for your happy ending. AU Storybrooke. Rumbelle.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** No words. I have no words. I was devastated by last week's episode (WHO WASN'T?) and then I got to thinking. A dangerous past time, I know. I started to wonder what Belle's past would have been like if she'd been in Storybrooke all along. And two hours later... this. If the characters belonged to me, they would have been taken away long ago. But enjoy, because I have NO idea what this is, where it came from, or what the hell I'm going to do with it.

* * *

Isabelle was never the type of employee to be idle. She looked for things to do after she'd finished her assigned tasks, often finding things that Gold himself hadn't thought about doing. He came in late one day to find the entire left half of the store had been arranged in a sort of order- musical instruments on the shelf, toys on the counter, jewelry (freshly polished) carefully lined up by size.

She had a smudge of dirt on her nose she hadn't seemed to have noticed yet, beaming up at him from where she was digging through a trunk of books. She looked quite pleased with herself, even when he said nothing, taking in the slightly disastrous state his floor was in.

"I got bored," she said, examining the back of an ancient looking novel.

"If this is what you do when bored, I'm rather interested in what you do in a productive mood."

She'd laughed. Properly laughed, like he'd told a joke, not made an idle comment as he'd intended. The sound startled him- not many people laughed in his presence, usually clamming up once he was in sight, money offered quickly to make him leave faster. Then again, Isabelle wasn't like most people. She'd walked straight up to him some time ago and asked for work.

Gold had nearly turned her away. Moe French owed a great deal of money- a sum that Isabelle didn't know the true figures of- and Gold hadn't wanted his daughter poking around Monday through Friday. But she'd proved herself a good worker, evident by the way the shop had been free of any hint of dust by her second day.

She never complained about the work (which was tedious), or the customers (who could go from desperate to murderous fast enough to cause whiplash), and she never asked for days off.

Even if she needed them.

"You can just turn yourself right around and go back home, dearie. You'll not be coming in here with a fever."

She blinked slowly. "I don't have a fever."

"Perhaps not now, but if you don't rest you'll certainly have one soon." His hand at her elbow, turning her around, steering her towards the door. "Out you go."

"Oh no, please." She turned, shaking off his hand only to grab it with hers. "I'm fine, really."

Gold prided himself on being able to read people. It's how he kept his pawn business going. Finding that memory, that desperation, that special something about an object that made in invaluable to someone. It was a special skill, one that not many people had. He used it day after day, person after person, and Isabelle standing before him, begging him to let her work when she was obviously ill, _that_ screamed desperate.

"Please Mr. Gold. I won't deal with customers today if you don't want me to, but please, please, don't send me home." She looked like every other customer, brows drawn together, eyes pained, but she wasn't a customer, she was Isabelle, and she was squeezing his hand.

"Something I should know about?" He kept his voice low despite the lack of customers and though his face was usually closed off, guarded from everyone, he felt the muscles relax, hoping she would be able to trust him.

"No, it's nothing, I just... I really need to work today."

Any other worker, especially one as young as her, would have run out the door the second they were told they had a Friday off. Yet there she stood, her hand over his.

"Miss French-"

"If I don't work today we won't make rent," she blurted, face pained. She dropped her gaze, bottom lip disappearing between her teeth. "I did the budget last night. We were sent a bad batch of roses and had to wait for more, so we didn't sell as much this month, but with my check we'll just make it..." she trailed off, face flaming.

Isabelle had worked for Mr. Gold long enough to hear the excuses people trotted out to try and get an extra week or two on rent, to get a bigger loan, but none of it ever worked. She supposed that's why his books were always immaculate- minus the time he'd misplaced a page of due dates and she'd spent the afternoon crawling on the floor to check under things for it (they'd eventually found it in the cash drawer hours later, Isabelle barking a triumphant 'ha!' when she pulled it out).

She wasn't stupid. She knew her father owed Gold more than he was telling her. Moe, bless him, couldn't hold onto cash to save his life and every month Isabelle had a minor panic attack when she did the figures. They were usually able to scrape by, but this time it was going to be tight. Literally every penny was being pinched and if Gold sent her home, they wouldn't make it.

And, as he told every person who ever offered him an excuse, he didn't give extensions.

"If you don't rest now, you'll miss more work later," Gold pointed out. The shop closed at two on Saturdays and didn't open at all on Sundays, but if Isabelle was already feeling unwell, she'd need the entire weekend to rest if she stood any chance of getting to work on Monday.

She looked ready to protest, but turned to cough violently, her body rattling, and Gold's mind was made up. He snatched his keys off the counter, flipping the sign to closed as he passed, and all but dragged her outside. It was a miserable day, cold and raining, the wind howling, biting through clothing with glee.

He used his cane to point at his car. "In you go." At her look, he sighed. "You're not walking home in this. In."

He was fairly certain she only obeyed because he was her boss, but she got into the car, shoulders slumped in defeat, head resting against the window. She didn't try to plead with him any further, or ask for an extension, just promised to be in the next day if she was feeling up to it, offering to stay late to make up for leaving early.

Gold waved it away. "Rest," he ordered as her father came down the walkway. "I can manage well enough without you."

"Thank you, Mr. Gold," Isabelle called over the weather. "For the ride."

He got all the way back to the shop before he realized the odd little half smile he'd given her was still on his lips.

* * *

By the next day, Isabelle had a fever, cough, headache, and a chill that permeated through three blankets and her warmest pajamas. She slept right through her alarm, lunch, nearly through dinner, and was back in bed before Moe got home. Sunday found her sweating the fever out, and Moe wasn't allowed in for fear that he'd catch it too.

Despite the virus, Isabelle fretted. She'd missed two days of work now, and by the looks of it she was going to miss another. She got paid Monday, but rent was due Tuesday and unless someone forgot an anniversary and bought about an acre of flowers with cash, they were going to be nearly one hundred dollars short.

Monday arrived, and though she was feeling a bit better, the fever lingered, and, defeated, Isabelle called in sick.

"I'm so sorry," she moaned. Sitting up made her dizzy, so she burrowed back under the covers, taking the phone with her.

"It's no matter," Gold assured her. "Feel better soon, the shop's looking a little dusty."

That got a laugh out of her even though she knew tomorrow he wouldn't be as forgiving.

Moe swung by the shop to get her check on his lunch, dropping it off for her to sign so they could get most of the money gathered at least. There _had_ been a small spike in sales that day, but not nearly enough to cover what they needed, and oh, the light bill was due next week.

Isabelle tore open the envelope, paused, and blinked hard. "This can't be right."

"What?"

"It... it's too much." She whipped around too fast, managing to grab her phone out of blind luck more than anything, dialing the shop dizzily. Moe snatched her check out of the air before it could flutter to the floor. She grabbed it back, reading the amount again.

"Gold's Pawn Shop."

"Mr. Gold, I think there's been a mistake."

"Oh?" He sounded interested, but not overly concerned.

"Yes, I just got my check. It's far too much." One good thing about steady working hours is Isabelle always knew exactly how much her check was going to be. It made budgeting easier, but also made it final- there was no chance for wiggle room.

"Ah," understanding filtered through the line and she could practically see his smirk. "Actually, Miss French, the amount is quite accurate. You got a raise."

"A raise?" Isabelle echoed in disbelief. Moe's eyes widened in shock.

"After two days of running the shop by myself while running around town, collecting rent, answering the phone, and fetching my own lunch while dealing with customers, I came to the realization that I do not pay you nearly enough. Now if that's all, I really must be getting back to business. Someone left the books strewn about in the back room."

The dial tone sounded in her ear. Isabelle actually pulled the phone away to stare at it blankly for a minute before hanging up.

They didn't speak of it again, and Isabelle's only thank you came in the form of freshly baked gingersnaps (Gold's favorite), but they never forgot.

* * *

Christmas rolled around far too early for her liking. Her father tended to overspend on the best of days and Christmas sent any hopes of a budget down the drain. But this year, with Gold giving her raises every six months (most people gave twenty five cent raises, he gave two dollars or more), they were able to afford modest sized gifts for each other, their friends, and even a decent Christmas dinner. As long as they stuck to the budget, they'd be fine.

Isabelle was good with money. She had been her entire life. Her father was not, and she actually had to hide his credit card so he'd use cash, so he'd actually _see_ the money he was spending. He still went over budget, but Isabelle's cookies were legendary and anyone getting a gift from her had requested a batch.

Christmas Eve fell on a Friday, and Isabelle had to work, which suited her just fine. She baked Gold three dozen gingersnaps, boxing them up fresh from the oven to take into work. One batch for Christmas, one batch for the absolutely insane Christmas bonus he'd given her, and another batch... the other batch was just because.

He'd all but pounced on them when she presented the box to him.

"I've tried dozens of different gingersnap cookies, Miss French, but yours are truly a delight." He bit into one with gusto. "How do you make them taste so good?"

"Magic," Isabelle told him.

Gold nodded, reaching for another. "I think you might."

By noon, the shop was quiet, no customers in sight. Any last minute shoppers had been put off by the snow. It had fallen softly, but steadily, and would easily come up to Isabelle's calf if it didn't stop soon.

"White Christmas," Gold observed. Isabelle made a face. "Don't like the snow, Miss French?"

"I like the idea of it, and it's certainly pretty enough, but it's too cold and wet for me to really enjoy it. Not to mention now that I'm grown I worry about heating bills and black ice instead of snowmen."

"Yes, growing up does tend to take most of the magic out of the world."

Isabelle grinned cheekily. "Except for my cookies."

"Except for your cookies," he agreed. "Oh yes, that reminds me." He came around the counter to stand beside her, a grin twitching at his lips. "There is the matter of your gift."

"Gift?" She seemed genuinely surprised- and delighted.

"It is Christmas."

Isabelle smiled wide, eyes sparkling. "What is it?"

"That," he said grandly, "is up to you. Pick anything from the floor that catches your eye."

"Anything?" Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead."

She made a bee line for the books like he'd expected her to, selecting a rather worn, but still good, copy of _Moby Dick_. Gold wasn't surprised. She was a fan of the classics- Jane Austen and the like.

"'Call me Ishmael'..."

"Very well Ishmael," she smirked, clutching the book tightly to her chest. He wondered when she would realize that the copy she held was a restored first edition. He'd taken it out of the locked case in the back, put it on the bookcase up front for her to see. "But only if you stop calling me Miss French."

The request took him off guard. She'd worked for him for a good year now, rarely- if ever- asked anything of him. "I've always called you Miss French."

"Yes," she agreed. "You have. But you just gave me a first edition of one of my favorite books." He grinned, caught (it was worth thousands but she didn't seem to care). "I think we've reached the point where Isabelle is acceptable. Or Iz, or Izzy."

Her friends called her Izzy. Her father called her Iz. But they weren't quite friends, and he certainly wasn't her father. Isabelle seemed to be thinking along the same lines, her nose scrunched up in thought. He couldn't quite get Isabelle past his lips, it seemed only half right, and Izzy wasn't right at all.

"How about a new name?" he proposed. "One for me to call you on special occasions."

"What kind of special occasions?" she asked, leaning over the counter to look him in the eye.

He hadn't gotten that far yet. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted, tapping his finger on his chin. "How about this- I will call you Isabelle on special occasions, should we have any."

"And the rest of the time?"

"The rest of the time I shall call you..." It came without conscious thought, like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life, the name slipping off his tongue before his brain could catch up. "Belle."

She stuck her hand out, striking the deal and they shook on it, his hand lingering for the briefest moment on hers. "Merry Christmas, Belle."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold."

* * *

Eventually, Isabelle was making enough to consider moving out of her father's house. Part of her didn't want to- her father would surely fall behind on rent and loan payments without her to distribute the money- but she was nearly twenty now, and she wanted that freedom. She'd found a small studio apartment, rent controlled, not too far from her house, but not too close either.

If she was very careful, she would be able to afford it within a few months, provided no one else had their eye on it. Excited, she'd confessed her idea to Mr. Gold one day when it was slow.

"My, my, my, off to taste freedom are we? Up at all hours of the night, wild parties... boys," he said with a quirk of his eyebrow.

She'd nudged his foot with hers, not quite a kick, but not a gentle probe either. "Yes, I'll invite Grayson over to read with me," she said with a snicker.

"Boyfriend?" he asked, face neutral.

"Ex," she said, hopping onto the counter to sit. "Hopeful, but still ex."

Gold raised a brow at her. "Your hope or his? And yes, I'm prying."

She laughed. "I don't mind. His." She sighed, told him of her typical high school romance. It would have been alright she supposed, but he'd wanted to marry right out of high school, for her to be a stay at home mom, and that just wasn't her. "So I broke it off, got a job instead."

"I see. And I suppose your boss doesn't allow for such frivolous things like boyfriends?"

Isabelle couldn't quite keep her face straight. "Oh no," she agreed. "He's appalled by anything resembling a social life. I'm convinced he goes home every night to some dark cave, sleeps in a coffin to avoid interacting with anyone."

"Sounds like a sensible thing to me."

Isabelle put a finger to her jaw, the picture of innocent thought. "I hear the mayor does the same thing. Perhaps they should do it together."

The horrified look he threw her was enough to keep her giggling for the rest of the day.

* * *

Curiosity got the better of her, and finally she asked him.

"What's your first name?"

He wasn't in the best mood, collecting from the nuns always left him growling at everyone, and didn't look up from his logs. "What?"

"Your first name. I'm assuming you have one." She rested a hip on the counter, watching as he signed receipts. _R. Gold_. Always 'R'. Nothing more. She waited until he stopped writing before reaching over, plucking the pen from his hand.

"I need that," he told her.

She held it out of reach. "For...?"

"For signing my name," he ground out, trying his best to glare at her. But, like always, Isabelle just grinned at him, unaffected.

"Which is?"

"Belle, I really need to finish this."

"Be hard to do that without your pen, Mr. Gold." She danced around the counter, tripping over the one raised floorboard like she always did, even though she knew it was there, but managing to avoid him all the same.

"I'll get another," he threatened, even as he tried to grab the one she had out of her hands.

Isabelle felt her back hit the shelf and stopped, tucking the pen behind her. Gold paused, then dove after it quickly, like a snake striking, just barely missing, Isabelle just jerking it away in time. She turned, her nose brushing his, laughing at his unamused look. He was too much fun to tease. He acted like he was angry, but his eyes shone, his mouth twitched, and Isabelle knew he wasn't really.

"Name," she said, holding the pen out as far as she could, gripping his wrist with her free hand, his arm pulled across her stomach, her hip brushing his. They were nose to nose, eye to eye, and Isabelle was glad she'd worn heels that day, otherwise she'd be looking up at him.

He sighed, his breath warm across her lips. With a shake of his head that had his nose brushing ever so slightly against hers, he relented. "Richard. Richard Simon Gold." His fingers wiggled expectantly. "Pen."

"Very well, Richard Simon Gold." She presented him with the pen. "Here is your beloved pen. Go on, go sign your name away."

She knew that smile, knew what it meant, but shock still flooded her. "Thank you, Isabelle Verna French." Oh, he was so damn smug and she was _so_ going to kill him.

"Who told you my middle name?" she demanded, stomping up to the counter, wobbling on the raised floorboard.

Gold smiled, gold tooth flashing, and went back to the logs.

* * *

Slowly, they went from Mr. Gold and Miss French to Richard and Belle, and the town noticed. They noticed him driving her to and from work when the weather was bad. They noticed her buying tea with her coffee in the mornings. They noticed Gold smiling, Izzy laughing, and they didn't know what to make of it. Mary Margaret had deemed it no one's business but hers and Gold's, but had demanded details, citing best friend rights.

"Come on, I have to live vicariously through someone," she said over lunch one Sunday. "Spill."

Izzy picked at her salad, uncomfortable even though it was just Mary Margaret. "And if I say there's nothing to spill?"

"I call you a liar," her best friend said cheerfully. "Now, I spend my days in a classroom, teaching to learn, or learning to teach, or whatever. But I spend my days with ten year olds. Please, give me a scandal that doesn't involve candy."

Startled, Izzy glanced up sharply. "Scandal? They're saying it's a scandal?"

Mary Margaret's grin got wide enough to scare Izzy. "So there is something...?"

"No," Izzy insisted quickly. Mary Margaret stared her down, eyes carefully innocent and Izzy couldn't keep her gaze. She squirmed. "Don't-"

"Izzy," Mary Margaret was suddenly serious, her voice low. "If you like him, you can tell me. You don't have to be ashamed of it."

"I'm not ashamed of it- well I am- he's- and I'm-" She quieted, staring solemnly out the window.

"What? He's what?"

"He's... There are _so_ many different sides to him. I don't think I'll ever get to see them all. He collects rent religiously and has rules made of iron, but he likes gingersnaps and lemon in his tea. And he would play with the children if their parents would let them- he always smiles at them so warmly when he sees them, and, god, he's so generous, you just have to earn it, but he gives you so much more than you thought you earned, and I'm so young and I've got to be boring in comparison, but we find things to talk about. Every day we talk about so much, it's unreal. And he's funny and he doesn't realize it and that makes it even better. When he laughs, it's genuine, and he's always interested, actually interested, in what I have to say."

Izzy stared hard into her tea (Richard had persuaded her to try it and now she couldn't stop drinking it). She'd started, and now she couldn't stop the flow of words, shocked at just how much she'd been hiding, what she'd been trying to deny to herself.

"He gives me books and lets me read when it's slow. He always appears when it starts to rain, or it's cold, I never ask him, he just shows up so I don't have to walk. He likes classical music and can play the piano and he's trying to teach me but I'm dreadful at it." She gave a laugh that sounded a little watery. "He thinks my cookies are magic and he's always so happy when I bring some in, his whole face lights up, you should see it."

Mary Margaret fell back against the booth, eyes wide. "Oh, you've got it _bad_."

It was true, no point in denying it now. Izzy let her head fall onto the table with enough force that the dishes rattled. "I know," she moaned. "What I don't know is what to do about it."

"Well," a new voice purred, jerking Izzy upright. "You could always jump him."

"Ruby," Mary Margaret tried to scold, but her lips curved.

"What? He's a guy, right? And he's not that old, only like thirty." She slid in beside Izzy. "It's simple. Just pounce, grab, and pin. Trust me, works every time. The older guys love it."

Izzy dropped her head to the table again, and this time she left it there.

* * *

Her father was not as understanding, and not just because he was her father and no one was good enough for his Izzy.

"He's too old Iz," he announced, not even bothering to pretend he hadn't noticed her dreamy expressions, the way she waited at the door on rainy days for his car to pull up, how she'd been staying later at the shop until she barely made it home before dark.

Izzy threw him a confused look- they'd just been talking about what to have for dinner, but it only took her a minute to know what he meant. The town was already talking about it, speculating. Izzy had been labeled a Gold Digger, and she had to wonder if the pun was intentional.

"Seriously? That's the argument you're going to go with?"

A little stunned at her lack of... anything (though she'd never really been the dramatic type), Moe barreled on. "He's in his thirties Iz. You're not even twenty-"

"_Nothing_ is happening between Richard and me."

"You call him Richard!"

"He calls me Belle," Iz pointed out. "I asked him not to call me Miss French and then I asked him his name. I can't ask him to use my name and then not use his."

"He's your boss-"

"_Dad_." And then her tone was sharp and Moe knew better than to speak. Iz began counting off on her fingers, eyes steely. "He's my friend, I'll call him what I like. It's not really anyone's business but ours. Nothing has happened, and probably nothing will. Don't even start with the age thing- he's twelve years older than me and you were ten years older than Mom. And I'll be twenty in two days."

Moe gave her a knowing look. "You've been prepping those arguments for a reason, Iz."

Iz flinched a little. "Dad, I'm nineteen. It's normal for me to have... a crush. Unrequited love and all that." Her cheeks flamed in spite of her calm tone. She fought the urge to squirm under her father's stare. He was just worried about her, she knew that, but it wasn't really his concern. She'd had crushes before, and he'd dealt with the aftermath when they hadn't worked out (there was already a cartoon of coffee ice cream in the freezer, waiting).

Moe didn't say any more on the matter, just watched how her face lit up when Gold's car stopped outside. He sometimes came by on good days too to see if she wanted a lift, dropping by to spare her the Maine weather.

Izzy waved from the passenger seat and he lifted his hand weakly. Neither of them could see it, at least not yet.

He wouldn't have said anything if he thought it was unrequited.

* * *

"Anything you want," Richard said with a grand sweep of his arm.

"Anything at all?" Izzy asked, bouncing on her toes.

Richard flashed her his gold tooth. "It's not every day a woman turns twenty."

"You said that about turning nineteen."

"Because it's true." He chuckled, nudging her forward with his shoulder, towards the bookcase. "Anything in the store is yours. Just name it."

He'd gotten some nice books in the other day, and had taken great care to hide them from her. The last time she handled a book delivery, she'd opened one to read and had gotten lost to the world for a good two hours before he found her, sitting on the floor, nearly finished with one book, already reaching for another. He'd made a quip about her getting paid to work, not read, but he let her finish.

A wonderfully old copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ had found its way into the shop, her absolute favorite. It wasn't first edition, but it was old enough to be worth something, though she wouldn't care the value, so long as it was hers (her copy had unfortunately met with a puddle the last time she'd tripped on the sidewalk and she'd yet to replace it).

Izzy wandered over to the bookcase, eyes scanning the spines, but not really seeing them.

He did this every year. On her birthday, on Christmas, even on Valentine's Day due to the surprise rush they'd had, men looking for jewelry that wasn't a ring, or something sentimental. They'd stayed far past closing straightening everything up, and he'd handed over a simple gold necklace she'd admired all day, trying, and failing, to sell it (she'd yet to take it off).

She usually selected a book- or two if she couldn't decide- but this year, there was nothing she wanted, not even the copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ he'd obviously put there for her. He tried to deny it, but he knew her well and managed to hide the classics from her until there was a reason to give a gift, leaving them out for her to find.

Nervousness curled in her stomach when she realized just what she wanted, fluttering around and then clenching only to flutter again, and suddenly Izzy knew why the saying was butterflies. It was like a thousand tiny wings inside her, all beating at once, completely at odds with her suddenly pounding heart.

He'd said anything.

Richard watched her take a step away from the bookcase, surprised. She walked along the jewelry case, fiddling with the necklace he'd given her. There was a matching bracelet, but it was broken and he hadn't gotten around to fixing it yet. But she kept walking, around the toys, past the silver, and finally coming to a stop beside him.

She didn't look nervous, just hopeful, and a tiny bit mischievous. "Name anything..." she said quietly, gaze directly on him.

Richard couldn't have moved if the shop was on fire. His breath caught in his lungs, his blood halting in his veins. Izzy took a small step forward, hands clasped behind her back, her bottom lip between her teeth.

"I name Richard..." She was so close now, he could feel every inch of her. "...Simon..." Her hand moved to rest over his, her fingers brushing the top of his cane. "...Gold..." Her face tilted up, nose brushing his like that day so long ago, the urge to kiss her returning, his willpower fleeing. "You. I want _you_."

"Be careful what you ask for," he murmured, closing the small distance left between them, his mouth sealing over hers before he could convince himself this was a bad idea- and surely it was, he was so much older, the town monster, but she was threading her fingers through his hair, his arm was winding around her shoulders, and it felt too damn right to be wrong.

* * *

Mary Margaret took one look at Izzy's glowing face, her wide grin, the bounce in her step and knew her gift, wrapped and waiting, was going to pale in comparison.

But she smiled.

* * *

**A/N:** Don't look at me, I don't know a thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Some sexiness in this chapter, because let's face it, both Rumple and Belle are beautiful creatures and sexual tension just radiates off them sometimes. Plus it's fun to torture poor Mr. Gold a little BUT NOT NEARLY AS MUCH AS THOSE DAMN WRITERS DO.

* * *

The town was quick to notice and even faster to judge. The rumors started, the people not even bothering to see if Isabelle was around before speaking. They weren't afraid of her, so it was her they muttered about. A few brave souls dared to make it very clear what they thought about Gold dating a pretty young thing like Isabelle French, but they were quick to quiet should the man in question appear.

They didn't let it bother them. They still worked in the shop, doing their odd little dance, sharing kisses and laughter. It wasn't the best relationship, but nothing was perfect, and they were both willing to bend a little. Belle stopped protesting the raises and gifts, and Richard tried to be nicer to people.

Tried being the operative word.

But he was willing, smiling and winking at the children, offering a smile at the foolish jokes, even going as far as to offer a reminder about loans coming due rather than appearing to startle people (he had a tendency to be dramatic).

Mary Margaret and Ruby were both ecstatic at Izzy's happiness, inviting her out so they could dish about the men (or lack thereof) in their lives. More often than not, the two women found themselves listening in disbelief as Izzy shared another tale of Gold smiling, or laughing, or something equally unbelievable. Mary Margaret found she had to separate them in her mind, otherwise she struggled to believe it.

There was Mr. Gold, to whom she paid rent every month. He ran the pawn shop, owned the town, and was widely considered an unpleasant man to be around, but one the town was around anyways. Mostly because everyone owed him money or lived on his property, but he was around nonetheless, and he wasn't going anywhere.

And then there was Richard, who made her best friend blush and laugh. Who smiled and bought her gifts as expensive as she'd allow, who was determined to spoil his new treasure. He treated Izzy- his Belle, as he called her- like a princess, his time as Mr. Gold completely overshadowed by the glimpses they were beginning to see of Richard.

He was still scary, and no one dared to fall behind on payments, but the proof that he was human was there, reassuring in its own way.

Richard was also, much to Ruby's horror, a gentleman.

"You guys haven't-?" she exclaimed, shocked.

Izzy looked to Mary Margaret for help, but the other woman was as surprised as Ruby.

"It's been six months!"

"Ruby, you know that I've not... not ever..."

Ruby flipped through her mental files, pulled out Izzy's and examined it. "Right," she nodded, remembering Grayson running off with a cheerleader the day after he and Belle had split. "Does he know? I mean, is that why he won't jump you?"

Izzy laughed. "Believe it or not, Ruby, there are men out there who are interested more with the woman rather than her bed." She stirred her tea dreamily. "It's been nice, you know? No pressure, no games. We're both adults, we both know what we want. Yes, he is a man, and I'm fairly certain if I invited him inside for 'coffee' he'd sputter and fumble, but he'd come in."

Neither Mary Margaret or Ruby could see Mr. Gold fumbling or sputtering, but the image was both amusing and sweet.

"So, aren't you all hot and bothered?" Ruby wanted to know, a playful gleam shining in her eye.

"A little," Izzy admitted with a blush. "But it's not like we don't do _anything_."

The words were out now, and she couldn't take them back, and, much like her gingersnaps when Richard spotted them, Izzy was jumped, helpless to do anything but submit.

"Explain," Mary Margaret demanded. "Or I swear I'll... I'll... I'll do something and you won't like it!"

They'd heard about Richard's deep, lingering kisses, his sweet, barely there pecks, the impulse nuzzles into her hair. Now they heard about his clever tongue, his fingers not quite touching, the way he was careful to bite without leaving a mark. The way he wrapped himself completely around her, fingers tangled in her hair, noses brushing gently, breath mingling.

The way he watched her with a smile. The way he pinned her to the bookcase in the back room. The way she snuck up behind him, dragging him off to the dark corners of the shop.

Ruby fanned herself. "God. If he's like that now, imagine what'll happen once you actually do the deed."

"Oh Izzy," Mary Margaret gasped. "He _loves_ you."

"Yeah," Izzy laughed, tears brimming. "I'm beginning to think so."

* * *

It had started slow and sweet, but then Belle's mind took a vacation, her body had taken over, doing what it wanted, and Richard was absolutely helpless to do anything but obey his most animalistic of impulses. His hands covered her breasts, ripped at her clothes, and she didn't stop him, only made him pause to remove the offending fabric.

She was not as kind to his clothing, and his tie lay in tatters, his jacket sleeve ripped off, the cuff of his shirt ripped, the button flying to land with a _ping_ somewhere on the floor.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. They were supposed to be in bed, on silk sheets, with candles and rose petals. There were to be whispers and gentle touches as they eased into this.

But Richard had looked at her the right way, Belle's gut had clenched, and they'd dove right in, mouths and fingers leaving trails on each other's skin.

The part of Richard's mind not screaming _Belle's skin Belle's tongue_ quietly reminded him that the back of the shop on a small, dingy cot was not the right place, and right after Belle had stomped in, fuming about a fight with her father (over money, over him, the two were always related) was not the right time.

"Belle," he gasped, pulling away as much as he could. It wasn't very far.

He couldn't stop his eyes from wandering, and if his hands were going to be still, well then he was at least allowed to look.

A simple cotton bra and plain white underwear over the smooth expanse of her skin, hiding the very places he wanted to see the most. It was more erotic than lace, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself.

Belle smiled, chest heaving. Her breasts brushed his bare chest with every inhale, nothing but thin fabric between them.

"Not the right time?" she asked breathlessly, hands halted on his zipper and so, so close.

"Afraid not." If he moved now, he wouldn't stop. "Not when you're thinking about your anger towards your father." Very carefully, trying to touch as little of her as he could (she was so soft, so willing against him), he brushed the hair from her forehead, resting his hand on the pillow beneath her. "When I make love to you, I am going to be the only thing on your mind."

When I make love. _When_.

Belle understood, but that didn't make her want him any less. The wicked part of her had her hips arching to brush his as she wiggled upright. "Okay," she agreed, kissing him quickly. She was tempted, so tempted, to give him a deeper kiss, to pin him and have her way, to let him take what he so obviously wanted... but deep down she knew she wasn't ready, not yet.

"I hate it when you're right," she muttered.

"Right now I hate it too," he said, letting his head drop against the wall hard. Maybe the pain would distract him. "However the view is wonderful."

She giggled, crawling over to kiss his mouth, then his neck. "Belle," he warned, even as he reached for her. His fingers brushed her stomach, spreading to cover her ribs.

"Why don't we-" nipped at his earlobe, her fingers running down his chest "-work our way up?"

She was a devil, but he was going to hell anyway, so he lowered his mouth to hers once again.

* * *

The next day Gold wore his highest collared shirt and jacket to collect rent. It didn't quite do the job and no amount of glaring was enough to quiet Ruby's snickering.

* * *

Isabelle had always been clumsy. She'd made her peace with that fact long ago, resigned herself to a life of bruises, broken bones, and scars. Funnily enough, she was always able to walk in heels, having no problem balancing in three inches higher than she normally stood. It was walking across flat surfaces that gave her issues.

And standing on ladders.

She'd been dusting the top of the shelves at work. Richard was in the back, tinkering with something, muttering under his breath about proper care for antiques. Belle was short, even in heels, and the shelves were high, so she was standing on the very top rung, the one with the 'this is not a step' sticker on it (which she wasn't paying any attention to), gripping the shelf for balance.

She'd never had balance before, and she knew that. But she still reached too high, rising up on her toes, arm stretched high above her to get that last clump of dust. The ladder had wobbled in protest, any hope of balance or grip running away. She'd overbalanced, arms flailing.

She landed hard on the floor, screaming on her way down. Her head connected with a shelf, a sickening crack filling her ears. The ladder had fallen on top of her, smacking her smartly across her ribs, one rung hitting her directly under her eye. She tried to pull herself together but _damn_ that had hurt.

Used to things like this, Belle had waved away Richard's panic, but at the sight of her blood dripping onto the floor he took her straight to the emergency room, one of his silk handkerchiefs pressed against the seeping wound.

"You're overreacting."

"It's not overreacting when there is blood involved."

"Trust me, I've had worse." Belle examined the ruined scrap of silk. Her head was still bleeding, but she'd keep that tidbit to herself. "I bet I won't even need stitches this time."

Richard's look said several things, none of which he said out loud. Belle was just glad he wasn't flying around the hospital, grabbing doctors and demanding that she be examined.

"Why don't we let the doctor decide, hm?"

As if on cue, Dr. Whale breezed in, smiled at the familiar face. "Ah, Miss French. Back so soon?"

Belle gave a weak smile. "Took another tumble."

Whale made a note on the chart. Isabelle was no stranger to the ER. "Fourth visit this year. Slip on the walkway again?" he asked, still writing.

"Fell off a ladder," Gold cut in. "She hit her head."

Whale gently peeled the handkerchief away, winced at the cut. "Ouch. Not quite deep enough for stitches, but we'll patch you up and get an MRI to be on the safe side- make sure nothing's broken or swelling."

Belle winced. Her insurance wasn't going to cover this...

Richard whipped out a card. "Everything goes on my insurance. And before you argue Belle, you fell while working, so yes, I have to- and will- pay for it."

Amused, Whale watched Isabelle's mouth snap shut. She narrowed her eyes at Gold, trying to figure out if she could get the upper hand somehow (and if it came down to a power play, Whale's money was on her).

Isabelle's klutzy nature lead to lots of bills and limits on what the insurance would pay. She'd come in earlier in the year after a minor car accident with her father and they'd hit their limit (and a light pole). Black ice, Moe's van didn't have good brakes anyways, and they both got banged up after skidding off the road.

It had been the first time Whale had seen the elusive Richard for himself. Mary Margaret had mentioned that a friend of hers was dating Gold, but it wasn't until the accident that Whale had truly been able to grasp the concept. Gold was an unpleasant man by nature, but seeing him fussing over Isabelle, worry etched into his features... Whale's perception of the man shifted just a little, and he got a glance, a small, tiny glimpse of Richard. (He'd even, much to everyone's surprise, checked in on Moe while Belle was filling out discharge papers.)

He saw it again now. Gold's hand was tight around his cane, knuckles bleached, eyes sharp, body tense. Genuine worry, genuine fear.

Genuine love.

"Okay then, let's get you bandaged."

The Mayor would want to know about this.

* * *

"You are the world's biggest klutz," Ruby announced, plopping into the booth, eyeing her friend's newest injuries.

Izzy groaned. "I know. It ruins everything too. Instead of going to dinner we wound up spending the entire night in the hospital, waiting around."

She'd been starving by the time she'd been cleared to go home, but Richard had called her father to let him know about her newest misadventure and they barely had time to grab some to go burgers before her phone began ringing. Most of their friends had heard from someone who'd heard from someone who'd heard from someone else. The rumor mill had started churning, and a fuming Ruby had reported that the word around the diner was that Gold had hit her.

"I set them straight of course, but no one listens around here. This town is full of idiots."

Izzy had walked right up to Mrs. Gladstone- her knitting group was nothing more than a gossip chain, whoever said old ladies were sweet had never met her- and bluntly told her that lies were not appreciated, would never be, and if she heard anything bad about Richard, who felt bad enough as it was that she'd fallen in his shop, Izzy would make sure to deliver Morning Glories to knitting, ensuring that the only noise Gladstone would make would be sneezes.

"Threatening an old lady with flowers." Ruby's grin was evil and approving. "I like it."

Mary Margaret shook her head. "Why is Mrs. Gladstone so hateful? She once accused me of failing her grandson on purpose to just to get on her nerves."

"Did you?"

Mary Margaret could only stare at Ruby, who could only grin. "_No_."

Ruby snorted. "I would."

"It's not my fault she only lets him read bible verses and won't let him study for science tests." She delivered a swift smack to Ruby's arm. "Honestly if half the town was as diabolical as you we'd all go down in flames."

"Unfortunately it's not just Mrs. Gladstone. Almost the entire town thinks Richard is responsible for this." Izzy gently poked the purple spot under her eye, ran her fingers over the bandage just under her hairline, watching her friends swat at each other. "It's almost like someone is deliberately spreading the rumor. Every time I convince one person I just fell, three more people ask why I'd let him get away with it!"

"People think what they want regardless of proof," Ruby said with a dismissive wave, smacking Mary Margaret's hand before it could hit her again. "Now, the big question is, what are you two doing on your date tonight?"

* * *

The bruise faded, summer fled, her birthday came and went (Richard had given her an antique bookcase filled with classic novels that caused her to drop off the map for a few days while she read them all), and the harsh winter decided to come early.

Belle shivered and stamped her feet, glaring down at the entirely unpractical boots Ruby had insisted she wear. They were high heeled, ankle height, lace up, cute, and definitely not something someone wore when walking across town in the middle of winter.

Though to be fair, the snow and rain hadn't started until Belle was halfway to Richard's.

"Ah, there you are. I was starting to worry."

Richard greeted her with a smile and a kiss, something wonderful smelling floating out of the kitchen.

"It decided to snow," Belle said, shrugging out of her coat. "And rain. At the same time."

"How inconvenient."

He didn't tell her she could have called to cancel, or have him pick her up, because he already knew what she'd say. After a year of dating, he knew her pretty well.

She knew him too, and gave him another kiss to make up for making him worry, and another for being out of touch while she tended to her father's cold and his shop. And another because she wanted to. And another because she could.

"Something smells good," she said, not quite out of his arms.

"Mmm," Richard agreed, nose in her hair. His voice vibrated through her chest and something in her caught fire. His lips brushed her ear, her head fell back, his arms were around her, fingers questing, and the only thing powerful enough to make them stop was the smoke alarm informing them that no, Richard had _not_ turned off the burner.

* * *

Belle was uncomfortable.

The bed was like laying on a cloud, the clothes weren't hers but they were far better than anything she had, and she smelled like expensive lotions and shampoos. But she tossed and turned and rolled over and just could not sleep and it was all Richard's fault.

The rain had stopped shortly after dinner, but the temperature dropped quickly, as it tended to do in Maine. So quickly that the still wet streets soon became glimmering skate rinks. They were far too dangerous to even consider driving on, and Richard wouldn't hear of her walking home when the temperature was in the single digits.

"I am not driving on those roads, and we both remember what happened last time your father's van hit ice." He touched the scar by her hairline, the ever present reminder of just how fragile his Belle was. One misstep and she was marked for life. "I have four guestrooms. Take your pick."

Richard stayed in the kitchen when she phoned her father, pretending to be focused on the dishes when the yelling started. He didn't have to make out the words to know what they were fighting about. No father wanted his daughter to be seen with a man like him, much less stay the night at his house. He couldn't blame Moe for wanting to protect Belle, but every time Belle came to him in tears at her father's words and accusations, Richard couldn't stop the anger.

But who was he really angry at? Her father for trying to drive them apart? Or himself for keeping Belle so close? He was the worst choice Belle could have possibly made in men. But she'd chosen him all the same, and he fought every day to be even a sliver of the man she'd decided he was. The man her father refused to believe he could be.

Although things had... progressed, they'd yet to cross that final boundary despite what Moe thought (and feared). They both wanted to, both thought about it, but Richard always hesitated. Belle was understanding, because she was Belle and she always understood him, but it was getting harder and harder to tell her to wait.

Wait for what, he didn't know, but the timing was never quite right. Not with the people whispering and pointing. Not with her father bellowing and shouting. Not with her friends encouraging and giggling.

But now she was down the hall.

She was no more than ten feet from him. The clothes she'd worn to bed were his. They smelled like him, the shampoo smelled like him, _she_ smelled like him and if she turned herself just right, the blankets felt like an embrace and she could pretend he was in bed with her right now.

Belle knew for a fact if she went into Richard's bedroom she wouldn't come out for the rest of the night. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn't pull back this time, and what her father assumed wouldn't be just speculation.

But she wanted this. She wanted him.

No matter what anyone thought or assumed or said... this was about them. Her friends, her father, the town- they didn't matter. She was Belle (not Iz or Izzy or even Isabelle, none of them were right anymore) and he was Richard (not Mr. Gold or even just Gold because he was her Richard) and she loved him so much she didn't know what to do with herself.

She loved him.

This was her decision, her choice to make. This was hers to give and no one, not even Richard, could decide for her.

She _loved_ him.

* * *

The door was cracked slightly, the light from the hall filtering in, spilling across the figures tangled in each other. The moon was full and bright, reflecting off the ice and through the window. There was no darkness here, no fear. Every touch, every whisper spoke of pleasure.

He made sure of it, because she was young and innocent and they both knew what came next.

For a moment, just an instant, there was pain, but it was a pain all women prepared for, one she was ready to feel.

And he worried, he feared, because he'd tainted her, hurt her, had taken what could not be given back, but she smiled at him, glowing in the moonlight, so trusting underneath him, so beautiful and wonderful and he loved her so much he almost couldn't believe it.

He loved her.

And that night, with frozen roads and bright full moons, he showed her.

And that morning, with gray clouds and soggy earth, he told her.

* * *

"He loves me."

Mary Margaret and Ruby squealed and hugged her and jumped up and down. Izzy laughed and extracted herself before she fell over (again, she'd already introduced her hip to Mary Margaret's island counter). They were all crashing at the teacher's newest place, a studio/loft apartment that was much bigger than her last cramped hole in the wall.

Ruby had shown up with leftovers from the diner and a bottle of vodka (she wasn't old enough to buy it, but she was Ruby and could get her hands on anything), declaring they were having a sleepover so they were doing this right. Apparently that meant drinking and asking uncomfortable questions.

Now the bottle was nearly empty, another one appeared from Mary Margaret's fridge, and they were all sprawled out on the bed, giggly and brave.

"So what's he like? In bed I mean."

"Oh god Ruby, why did I know you were going to ask that?"

"Because I brought vodka and made you drink it."

"Why do you even _want_ to know?"

"Because you're my friend. And because I drank way more vodka than either of you."

Mary Margaret found that hilarious and giggled wildly, falling backwards onto Izzy's legs. Ruby crawled over them to lay on her stomach at Izzy's side, blocking any chance of escape. She waved the now empty bottle for emphasis, reaching for the other one.

"Now, I wanna know. Did he... you know... get your toes to curl?"

Izzy flushed but the vodka worked and now she'd have to be careful because last time she'd drank with Ruby they'd wound up dancing on the rooftop of the inn and Izzy had seen way more of her friend than she'd ever wanted to. Her memory got fuzzy after that, but Izzy could only assume she'd done similar because the next afternoon Ruby had asked about her birthmark.

But they were all fully clothed and Izzy could handle questions.

"He made sure I did, before we actually-" she made air quotes "-did the deed."

Mary Margaret sat up, suddenly interested, but flopped back down when the room began to spin.

"Aw, that's sweet," she cooed, gripping the bed to try and make it sit still.

Izzy laughed, watching the ceiling spin. "The next part hurt. A lot. And he said..." she had to think. The fan was distracting and Ruby's perfume smelled like flowers. "He said he wanted to bring me pleasure before I felt that pain."

"Wish my first had been like that." Ruby knocked back another shot, passing the bottle to Mary Margaret, who's fingers couldn't hold a shot glass so she took a drink directly from the bottle. "He was all wham, bam, thank you ma'am." Ruby paused, thought about it. "Though he didn't say thank you."

"Who was it?" Mary Margaret asked. There were two nightstands by her bed but she was pretty sure only one of them was real. Closing one eye, she spotted the real one and put the bottle on it.

"Some guy in school. His backseat was tiny, and it was over so quick the car didn't even rock."

"Is... is that a euphemism?" Izzy looked to Mary Margaret, unsure. "It sounded like a euphemism."

Mary Margaret clutched her head. "No big words," she muttered. "No vocabulary of any kind. And no more vodka."

Ruby rolled off the bed, staggered to her bag sitting ominously on the counter. "Good thing I brought tequila!"

* * *

"Did you enjoy your night of drunken debauchery?"

Belle didn't move, only groaned when Richard's cane tapped closer. She was pretty sure they only way her head would feel worse is if Richard broke the plate he was carrying over her skull, but he didn't, merely sat it down in front of her.

"I think so," she said to the floor, not daring to look up. She and light weren't on speaking terms at the moment.

"Don't remember?"

"Not all of it," she admitted, risking a glance up to grab at her water.

Richard chuckled, running his hand along her shoulders. "Ah, to be young and foolish."

Belle's finger pointed at him. "No foolishness was had last night. After what happened last time, I made Ruby promise me that we'd only go drinking when Mary Margaret was going to be around to stop us."

Drunken stories, my, my, Belle was full of surprises. Although she was now legally old enough to buy her own alcohol, she'd thought it wise to not turn up at her father's house smelling like a brewery. Instead she'd turned up at his, wincing pitifully at the sunrise. She was a mere paycheck away from affording an apartment, one simple security deposit between her and her freedom (he'd made sure no one else had their eye on it after the studio one had been snatched out from under her).

"Do I want to know why Miss Blanchard has to cut you off?"

"Let's just say that the last time it was me, Ruby, and a bottle of something, she got a first hand look at my birthmark while we were dancing on Granny's roof."

Richard took a sip of his tea, eyebrows quirked. "Which one?" She had a few interesting moles on her back, clustered around her shoulder that could qualify as a birthmark, and an actual red mark on her-

Belle raised her head enough to look him dead in the eye before dropping back down, away from the sunlight shining merrily through the window.

To his credit, he did not spit out the mouthful of tea he'd taken.

He just... choked on it a little.

* * *

**A/N:** Show of hands, who else was in tears when Rumplestiltskin was panicking and heartbroken? Also, HOLY FREAKING CRAP YOU GUYS. I didn't expect this much of a response to the first chapter! I'll keep the updates coming when I can- promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** And now... Regina. DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNNN Keep in mind this is Pre-Emma, so she's very... Regina-y.

* * *

"How on earth did I wind up with so much stuff?" Belle wondered aloud, surveying her still half full room. She was up to her waist in boxes (mostly stuffed with books) and was nowhere near being finished packing.

Moe huffed back up the stairs, mopping at his forehead with a bandana. "You started dating the owner of a pawn shop." He gave a significant look to her floor to ceiling bookcase (still full). "He gives a lot of gifts." Moe stretched his back. "Iz, honey, I've lost count of the number of books I've carted down the stairs. The van's already full."

Belle had no idea how she'd managed to fit all of these things into one tiny room. The apartment was officially hers. First and last month's rent paid, the security deposit set up, and it had boxes all over the floor already. Her bed had already been delivered and set up, her dresser was en route, which left Belle which her actual things.

And she had a lot of things.

"Right. We need to make a few more trips then."

"Knew I should have gotten a truck," Moe muttered, bending to heft another box. "Get the other end, would you?"

Belle bent, grunting. The box was half her height, just barely the width to get through the door, and it was filled to the brim with books and pieces of her smaller bookcase. Between the two of them, they managed to wrestle it into the van (Belle actually had to lean on the door to get it to close).

"You know, Gold's responsible for most of these damn things," Moe panted. "Why the hell isn't he here hauling them?"

"Besides the fact that his range of motion is a bit limited?"

Moe winced at her tone. "Right. Keep forgetting about his knee." He eyed his daughter. She'd been happier with Gold, even he could see that. She had her own place now, away from him, but she wasn't moving in with Gold, so he'd pick his battles.

It had been over a year know, and Moe was no fool. He wasn't happy that Iz had settled down with Gold, but in the past year she'd been taken care of. If nothing else, he could be happy about that. He wouldn't be around forever, and while Gold wasn't the man he would have picked for Iz, he'd at least be able to provide for her.

"He should already be at my place," Belle said, sitting on the bumper to rest. Richard was helping her furnish the empty spaces that couldn't be filled with books. Belle had flat out refused to have him help her on rent (even though he owned the building and she was certain he was undercharging her), but he'd wanted to help out in some way (other than giving her ridiculous raises so she could afford everything) and broke into his attic and let her have her pick of what she found. "He's handling the furniture delivery."

"He's handy, I'll give him that. Come on then. We've only got about ten thousand more books to go."

* * *

Belle flopped dramatically onto the floor, panting.

"No more," she groaned.

"You're the one who kept wanting books for your birthday," Richard muttered, sinking carefully onto the rug beside her. He winced, stretching out his leg slowly to remove the knots. Belle's apartment _would_ be on the third floor. He'd been determined to help cart boxes, but now that his knee was protesting he'd wished he'd listened to Belle and taken a break hours ago.

"You're the one who kept giving me books for my birthday."

Moe dropped onto Belle's new couch, wondering if he'd have the energy to get back up. "You're both to blame," he decided.

Belle giggled, turning to glance at her father. He'd been trying, for her sake, to not start anything with Richard, but they'd both been on edge with each other all morning. Nothing major had happened, and no books were dropped on heads, so Belle was calling it a good day. So far.

Richard's smile turned into a grimace, then a hiss of pain. He clutched his knee in both hands, cursing when it started to spasm.

Belle scrambled upright. "I told you to rest it- you pushed too far today," she said, hands fluttering in the air above his. She didn't want to touch in case she hurt him more. "What should I do?"

"I'm alright," Richard insisted, pushing out a breath. The spasms passed quickly and the tension flowed out of them both. "But yes, I may have pushed it a bit."

"We could all use a break," Moe said tiredly. "How about lunch?"

Ruby appeared in the doorway. "I," she announced, "have excellent timing." She held up a basket. "And food."

* * *

"You know... I've never seen you not in a suit before." Ruby looked Richard over, taking in his plain button down shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, the dark pants, not quite suit worthy but not quite casual. "Actually, I've never seen you without a tie before, but this," she pointed at him with scarlet nails, "it works."

Richard glanced at Belle, who was losing a battle with some giggles. "Ah... thank you?"

Ruby shrugged, biting into a sandwich. Granny had sent her over with lunch to feed an army. Belle (Ruby noticed that she responded more quickly to that than Izzy) had been under the impression that only her father and Richard (and it was still weird to call him that, even in her head) would be the only ones to help her move. Richard had Leroy- who was working off some money owed- and his truck hauling furniture, but that was about it.

But the town surprised them sometimes.

Archie had stopped by on his way to the office and helped Belle put together a few shelves so they could get some of the books out of the way. Mary Margaret was coming straight over once school was out, and even Doctor Whale had made an appearance (Ruby had hiked up her shorts and convinced him to carry some boxes up the stairs before he was paged). Sheriff Graham was helping Leroy load and unload between patrols.

Belle leaned over Richard, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. "You have been very wonderful today."

Moe paused, watched them.

Gold's mouth quirked upwards, eyes crinkling with the smile. He brushed a stray curl from Iz's cheek, tucking it behind her ear before picking up his drink. A quick fleeting touch, no more than a few seconds, no more intimate than holding hands, but Moe felt as if he'd witnessed a private moment.

Maybe it was Gold's smile- a real smile, not a smug smirk. Maybe it was the way Iz lit up at his touch.

But something in the back of his mind still whispered to him. It could all be a show for his benefit. Show the father how loving he could be, but what happened once the door was closed?

Moe smiled at Iz when she glanced his way. He was uneasy with this still, but he would try to accept it. As long as Iz was happy, he could manage that.

* * *

By the third night in her apartment, Belle was absolutely sick of boxes.

"They're breeding. They have to be."

Mary Margaret laughed, unearthing a scrapbook and kicking the empty box out of the way. "I thought the same thing when I moved. It's like all of your stuff just expands and you're left wondering how you managed to fit everything into the tiny space you moved out of."

"Exactly!" Belle stumbled over a box, hopped on one leg, managed to regain her balance and avoid tripping. "That could have been bad." She moved the box out of her path. "I don't know how all of these books could have possibly fit in my room."

"Maybe it's not the boxes that are breeding," Mary Margaret mused, idly setting pictures up on the mantle. She paused, looked the pictures over. "Don't you have any pictures of you and Richard?"

Belle was shoulder deep in another box. "Somewhere." She surfaced, clutching an old jewelry box. "I think they're in a box in the living room. I haven't framed any of them yet."

Mary Margaret hummed thoughtfully, backing up to examine her handiwork. She hit a box with her foot, turning and bending to examine it, confused.

"I swear I got all of the ones over here..."

"Told you- breeding."

* * *

Regina watched the last car pull away from the apartment complex, drumming her fingers on her steering wheel, mind churning.

When Whale had told her about Isabelle French and Gold dating months ago, she'd been tempted to laugh. She'd heard the rumors of course, she heard about everything in Storybrooke, but it had been well over a year now and the rumors were old news, boring proven facts. Even the old grannies that knitted together didn't talk about them anymore.

Sydney had heard nothing to hint at a breakup, and Gold had spent the better part of his week helping Miss French move into her first apartment.

Regina had seen for herself the goodnight kiss they'd shared, Miss French draping her arms over his shoulders, Gold running a hand through her hair. They were still going strong, happily in love and not giving a damn what anyone thought (that was, after all, Gold's specialty). Even Moe French seemed... accepting of everything.

He wasn't happy with the situation, but he wasn't fighting it anymore. He didn't go out of his way to be nice to Gold, barely shook his hand when they'd finished getting everything into Miss French's apartment, but if things continued unchecked, Moe could soon be calling Gold his son-in-law.

Oh no, this wouldn't do at _all_.

* * *

"...mean it's nice and all, but it's kind of like driving a big boat around. And the gas it takes, there's no way I can afford that. Now the Xterra, that I would drive."

"You drive Gold's Cadillac?"

Belle nodded, eyes never leaving the newspaper in front of her. "Sometimes if his leg hurts I drive," she said, distracted. "What's a rod knock?"

Ruby smiled, a wicked gleam in her eye. "I don't know, but I can guess."

"Rod knock?" came a new voice. "In an engine, that's a very bad thing."

Belle turned to the Sheriff. "It is?"

Graham nodded, settling himself on the stool beside Belle. He shrugged out of his coat, careful to avoid dripping on anyone. The rain was really coming down in force- he'd had to close off a few roads that had washed out, but it wasn't too bad yet. "It's usually about a few grand in repairs," he informed the two women. He nodded to the paper. "Looking for a car?"

"Trying to," Belle sighed. "My apartment is wonderful, but it's a long walk to the store, or anything really, and I can't call Richard every time I need a ride." There weren't many cars for sale that she could really afford. There was a dealership on the other side of town, but Belle would rather pay for a car in one go than be stuck with payments for a few years.

Not to mention she had no credit at all and she'd probably have to pay through the nose first anyways. It would be better to pay a lump sum and be broke for a while rather than have another bill every month to worry about (her paychecks were steady and decent, but she bought too many books each payday and had no willpower).

Graham scanned the ads, mouth twisting. "Eh, you'd be better off in the next section," he said, pointing.

"In the cars I can't afford section."

"Trust me, you want to spend a little extra for a car." Graham took the coffee Ruby set down, raising it in thanks. "With a car, you get what you pay for. Sure this one is only a grand, but in a few months you'll end up with so many problems it would cost more to fix it than it would be to get another car." He tapped the section labeled 'slightly used'. "These are your best bet."

Belle heaved a sigh. "Well, I'll be waiting a while longer for a car then." She offered Graham a smile. "But thank you."

"No problem. And if you find one you're considering, let me know. I'll look it over for you."

* * *

"You need a hobby," Belle announced.

Richard didn't look up from his books. "I have several hobbies."

"Name one."

"I play the piano," he said immediately, still writing, his pen scratching across the paper. "I can tune almost any instrument. I read."

"No, I read. You enjoy a book every once in a while." Belle snatched his pen right out of his hand. Unimpressed, he turned to her. "You only play the piano when it needs tuned or when someone is thinking about buying it." She tapped his pen against her lips, backing away when he advanced, trying to get it back. "You need a hobby that doesn't include work."

A sly smile, a last second dodge, the pen still in her hands. "Or me," she added.

"Between you and work, I don't have time for anything else." Richard abandoned the pen and instead grabbed her around the waist, pulling her tight against him, her back to his front. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you," he said into her hair.

"No, of course not."

"I need my pen Miss French."

Her eyes twinkled, old mischief sparkling. "Come and get it, Mr. Gold."

His mouth had barely touched hers, his hands traveling up her ribs (despite the rules they had about such things during business hours) when the bell chimed. Belle jumped in his arms, Richard sighed, turned to face a customer that was probably not going to get very good customer service. He went tense for the briefest second, his grip on Belle tightening.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Regina purred, eyeing them with interest.

"Mayor Mills," Richard acknowledged, releasing Belle. "Of course not."

Her eyes didn't leave Belle. "Right."

Belle had the distinct urge to fidget, made herself stand still and tall. She wasn't ashamed of her relationship with Richard. She spent enough time defending her decisions with her father, she wasn't going to get flustered because the Mayor walked in on her kissing her boyfriend (though the term sounded so high school).

"How can I help you today Madame Mayor?"

Regina peeled her gaze away from her at last. Belle felt her shoulders relax. "I have a private matter I need to discuss with you." She swiped imaginary dust off the glass counter. "A personal favor, if you will."

Belle could take a hint. "I'm meeting Mary Margaret for lunch. See you for dinner?" Deliberately she pressed a kiss to Richard's cheek, squeezing his hand before darting out the door. The wind smacked her in the face, she really should have grabbed her scarf, but she was not going to go back in there.

Belle squared her shoulders and strode to calmly to Granny's.

* * *

"Ugh, Madame Mayor gives me the creeps," Ruby hissed, watching the dark haired woman come down the sidewalk.

"Be nice," Mary Margaret ordered, turning back quickly to her hot cocoa with cinnamon.

"Me? Sure." Ruby stood, false smile in place. "Tell that to her."

The door opened, a quick burst of the winter wind tearing through the diner, the chill lingering even after the door was closed. Regina ran a hand through her hair, eyes scanning the diner, zeroing in on the two in the booth, heads bowed over their food.

"Miss French," she called, voice all honey. "I wonder if I could have a moment of your time."

It wasn't exactly a request, and Belle stood even as some part of her wondered exactly what Regina could do if she refused. Then she realized she didn't have to wonder, because no one refused the mayor. Richard sometimes laughed at her, but she never touched him (because he was still Mr. Gold and still the most powerful man in town, not just Richard). But she certainly wasn't Richard.

"Madame Mayor?"

"Oh please," wide smile, white teeth, eyes on her. "Call me Regina. Won't you have a seat?"

This probably wasn't going to end well. Belle kept her hands still, wouldn't let them shake, and smoothly slid into the booth, folded her hands on the table, mimicking Regina's posture. She really wished Richard were here. He knew how to handle the mayor. He knew how to handle everyone.

But he wasn't.

And it was just the mayor.

"I was just wondering, woman to woman." Regina took a sip of coffee, her lipstick staining the side of the white cup, a gash of deep red against the porcelain. "How is your relationship with Mr. Gold?"

"I'm sorry?"

Regina laughed, amused at the simple creature before her. "Oh, come now. Don't keep me in suspense. I've known Gold for years and I've never seen him even remotely interested in a woman before. I'm curious. How is it that you've managed to keep him, the town attorney, richest man in Storybrooke, glued to _you_ for over a year?" Red lips parted, smiling like they were friends. "I mean, age, well that's just a number, don't you pay attention to what people say. You two _must_ have a lot in common in order to keep this little thing going for as long as you have. I mean, does he even like flowers?"

Little thing? Like their relationship, the one they fought for, endured staring and gossip for, daily, was something small. Easy to dismiss. Nothing to a woman as powerful at Regina Mills. What business was it of hers anyways? And what did she mean by 'glued to _you_'? Belle wasn't some slack jawed milk maid- she was a woman happily in love and of her own mind.

If the Mayor couldn't see that, then it was her own damn problem.

Belle smiled sweetly, sugar coating her tone. "Any relationship takes work, as you of all people must know, Regina."

For an instant, her smile slipped.

"Of course. Do you have to work to keep things alive between you and... Richard?"

"We have a hard time finding things not to talk about actually. As for the flowers, I'm not sure as I'm not overly fond of them myself, too much time in my father's shop, you understand. I'm more a fan of books. Richard, well, he likes them well enough, but his passion lies..." She trailed off, biting her bottom lip. "Well, every relationship has a secret or two." She let her fangs glisten. "Surely _you_ know all about _that_, don't you Madame Mayor?"

Ruby coughed suddenly, running to the kitchen, the door slamming between her and them, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Belle stood, willing her knees not to knock together. "Now if you'll excuse me, I should be getting back to lunch with my friends. Enjoy your meal."

* * *

"What was that?"

"She wanted to know about my relationship with Richard."

"What? Why?"

"How should I know? God, what was I thinking? I think I made her mad. I'm sure I made her mad."

"What did you do?"

"You didn't hear?! Oh man, it was perfect. She like, taunted the mayor about the fact that she's always single and then more than hinted that Gold's passion was in the bedroom, which she wouldn't have any idea about because absolutely no one is crazy enough to sleep with her."

"Thank you Ruby. Really."

"_Isabelle_. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't. I just... I don't know."

"You just turned into a serious badass. I love you. You even pointed out the fact that she was eating alone, like always. I freaking _love_ you."

"...Izzy if you keep hitting your head against the table like that you're going to break it."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Aaaaand everything comes crashing down! Thank you so much to Anti-Kryptonite, who lets me message about random things and gets my plot bunnies in gear. (Who also, incidentally has some pretty freaking awesome Rumbelle stories that you guys KNOW you want to read!)

* * *

They had fights of course. Life wasn't always peaches and cream. There were days when Belle stormed away from him, where Richard decided it would be better if they weren't around each other at all. Sometimes they went days without speaking to each other while one cooled off. The fights never lasted long because a simple 'sorry' was much easier to say than they thought it would be, forgiveness given easily, and often.

But Richard still took his personal rules entirely too seriously, and Belle still tended to get testy if someone distracted her while she was trying to read. He liked to sleep in on Sundays. She was a morning person, never in bed later than eight am. He honestly didn't care what people thought about him and even goaded them on just to see what they would do. She was a people person, friends on every block, scolding him for being rude again.

They were very different, and still argued, because everyone argues, they just didn't let that get in the way. They compromised, they apologized, they accepted differences, and they let it go.

It's why they worked.

She was around to let him know when he'd gone too far (he was starting to swallow his cruel words in her absence now, wondering when he'd turned into the kind of man who had mean intentions). He showed her a world in their small town that was as good, if not better than, the ones in her books. He was, if not active on Sundays, up, dressed, and functioning at least. Belle was able to stand up for herself now, her relationship with him giving her courage she didn't know she was lacking.

It worried him.

Though he'd been impressed by her verbal spar with Regina (she actually _won_ that round), the fact that the Mayor was seeking her out made him suspicious. It made him want to take as much time as possible with the favor she'd asked of him, but taking time with the favor meant Regina coming around more, and Belle was almost always with him. At some point, they'd cross words (more dangerous than swords) again.

So Richard was trying to hurry, but this would take a while. He had a possible lead, a strong maybe, but even if an agreement was reached it would take another six months before everything was in order, maybe another two after that for it to be final.

Until then, he kept an eye on Regina, making it no secret that any more advances on Belle would be met with retribution. Regina got the message, backed up and stayed away. Richard wasn't sure what worried him more, the fact that Regina had to be sent that message, or the fact that she seemed to be giving up.

* * *

Belle blinked twice, looked startled at his presence, a book dangling from her hand, one finger between the pages to mark her place. Horror filled her eyes and despite himself, he smiled.

"Oh my god," she gasped. "I totally forgot."

"It's certainly not the first time I've been stood up by a beautiful woman." He nodded to the thick book in her hand. "And as long as the beauty has books, it won't be the last."

A quick kiss on the lips to let her know he wasn't angry in the least as he stepped inside. The stairs to her apartment always gave his leg trouble, but he liked being able to walk up them. The last time he'd paid the doctor a visit the comment had been made that the exercise was actually doing the joint some good. Richard could stand on it longer, even kneel for brief periods of time. So he took the stairs to see the woman who'd forgotten about their date.

Belle sat the book on the counter. "I actually didn't start reading this until about twenty minutes ago," she admitted sheepishly. "I just flat out forgot."

Richard laughed. Belle wasn't one to forget things, she was actually very obsessed with details, but it had been known to happen (locking her keys in her apartment, forgetting her wallet at home). It wasn't the first time she'd been late or completely absent from their plans, but it was the first time a book wasn't to blame.

"I'm sorry," Belle said, stepping towards him, tilting her head so their lips brushed. "Why don't I make it up to you?"

Richard lowered his mouth to hers eagerly. He supposed he could forgive her, just this once.

* * *

Belle blinked once. Twice.

"Izzy, _seriously_?"

Belle jolted out of whatever world she'd been in, ignored Ruby's look, and continued to dig frantically through her purse and pockets. Her debit card was small, easy to lose, and she'd developed the habit of closing her fingers around it, making absolutely sure she had it before she used it. They were going to the movies and to dinner, a night out with the girls, and Belle had reached into her purse to get her card only to come up empty.

"I just had it," Belle insisted, turning her jacket pockets inside out.

Ruby retraced their steps a few paces, searching the ground. "Of all the things to lose," she muttered. "Didn't you have it at the restaurant?"

"Yes," Belle said into her purse, rearranging everything for the third time. She had to have it. She made sure she packed it before she left. Her card never left her purse unless it was in her hand or in use, the first thing put into a new bag. She _had_ to have it. Somewhere. "I paid with cash though, so I couldn't have-"

"Wait, no you didn't. I remember you had to sign the receipt."

She did?

"I did?"

Ruby nodded, grabbing her arm. "Come on. If we hurry we can get it back and still make the movie in time."

Belle let herself be lead, smiling at the waiter who recognized her and fished her card out of the lost and found. She wracked her brain, thinking back over the past few hours. She was so sure she hadn't used her card yet, almost positive, but it was late and she was tired. Ruby, however, was full of energy, a night person if she'd ever seen one.

"Next time, we're going to a showing other than the midnight release."

"Yeah, yeah, you say that every time. Come on, the guys in this are so hot, you won't even believe it."

* * *

There were times, few, brief moments, when Richard needed Belle emotionally- if something was painful, hard to handle, and he knew he wouldn't be able to get through it by himself. Belle never let on that she knew about these times, and he never actually told her, but he didn't need to. She knew him, loved him, accepted him, would do anything for him. Verbal cues were not needed for them.

But today of all days... Richard would tell her.

She deserved to know. More importantly, he wanted her to know.

Belle was nothing he'd wanted but everything he didn't know he needed and she'd slipped under his defenses, dusted everything off, made herself right at home. And she wasn't going anywhere. Even if she looked at him one day and decided she didn't want to be with him anymore, she would always, always, be in his heart, a piece he needed in order to live.

He loved her. So much.

He went with her to visit her mother, watched as she lovingly brushed the snow from the headstone.

"Mom, this is Richard. He's the love of my life."

She didn't elaborate any further or say much more than "I miss you", and Richard didn't rush her, understanding the need to speak to one long gone. Mother's Day was especially hard on her. Her mother had died so long ago, Belle never getting any of the moments a daughter was supposed to get with a mother.

It saddened him to know that Belle had dealt with such a hard blow so early in her life, but death was not picky.

He, more than anyone, knew that. And today, Belle would know why, because it was time she knew. Because he wanted to tell her. Wanted no secrets between them. He slipped his arm around her, kissed her temple.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet."

* * *

_Brandon Franklin Gold_

_Beloved Son_

She knew he'd been married, he'd told her himself when she found his old wedding ring in the shop, but the subject was obviously painful and she'd never asked anything more, afraid he'd close himself off. He didn't like letting people in, so Belle never tried to push with him, but she wanted to know more, wanted to know everything, good and bad, about him.

"My son," he whispered quietly, voice raw.

Belle swallowed her tears, turned to embrace him, trying to give comfort she knew wouldn't come. Death took who it liked, when it liked, and the people gone left gaping holes in hearts that still bled. The pain was always there, never faded, merely stood aside for a while before presenting itself again.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask but didn't know how, so many things she wanted to say that couldn't get past her lips. Richard held her tightly, leaning against her.

"Cancer," he said because he knew she was wondering. "He was only eight." His heart ached, the never dull pain flaring. "Maria- my wife- she wasn't very fond of me after the war and left shortly after Brandon's fifth birthday." He blinked hard to clear his vision, focused on Belle wrapped around him, her hand running soothingly up his back. "He was in the hospital a few months later."

Brandon would have been thirteen this year, a teenager to fight with, to tell him he was a horrible father. A teenager to sneak out, to get into trouble, a gray hair inducing pain that would want a new phone, a later curfew, who'd hate school and try to get out of going any way he could.

Richard would give anything for just one day of that.

Belle extracted herself to kneel on the muddy ground, brushing the snow from the plastic flowers he'd put there years ago. They were faded now, the fabric fraying at the edges. Richard could only stand to visit a few times a year, fighting against tears every time, feeling completely raw and bloody after each visit. The tears flowed freely now as he watched Belle, beautiful Belle, carefully clear the fake flowers for his son.

"The cemetery will let you plant flowers," she said quietly as she stood. "We'll get some seeds tomorrow, that way he'll have fresh flowers every spring."

"I think he'd like that."

"Marigolds and Irises do well in this soil, and they come in different colors. Did he have any favorites?" She brushed a fine layer of the white powder off the gravestone, resting her hand briefly on the marble. "Next time I visit, I'll plant something for you Brandon. Would that be alright?"

For a moment Richard couldn't even speak, the tears were too thick, he couldn't breathe because she was so wonderful, so perfect, and he'd never done anything to deserve her. He yanked her into his arms, his cane falling into the snow, burying his face in her shoulder. She held him firmly and they fit so perfectly and he knew, he _knew_ he was never going to let her go.

* * *

Belle stood in the doorway. Blinked once. Twice.

Flew into her apartment, not even bothering to shut the door, dropping her keys and her purse on the floor as she ran, muddy boots and all, into her smoke filled kitchen. The smoke detector shrieked, a loud screech in her ears, pounding through her head. She coughed, trying to fan some of the smoke away.

Luckily nothing had caught fire, smoke only, no flames, and Belle waited until her blood pressure had lowered to remove the ruined dish from the oven. It looked like it should have been steak and potatoes, but now it was a charred mess burnt onto her favorite pan.

Belle tossed everything, dish and all, into the trash, wondering all the while when she'd even prepared the dish, much less put it on to cook.

Had someone been into her apartment? No, the door had been locked when she came in, the deadbolt and everything and only she and Richard had the key to that, and she'd been with him all day. So it must have been her. It had to have been. But she didn't remember prepping the dish, or even using the oven at all that day.

She definitely wasn't going to tell Richard, not until she figured this out. If someone _had_ broken in- but who broke in to cook?- he would hunt whoever it was down and probably beat them with his cane. And if she'd done this, had turned the oven on and forgotten about it... well he might never let her touch a stove again.

* * *

"...Iz?"

Belle blinked once. Twice.

Looked at the phone in her hand. Her father's voice was coming through the line, louder and louder when she didn't answer. She put the receiver to her ear, a chuckle escaping her even as she tried to remember picking up the phone, or dialing a number.

"Sorry Dad, I think I hit the wrong number on speed dial. How are you?"

Moe was quiet for a minute, listening to his daughter prattle on about the book she was reading, the shipment of jewelry Richard had gotten in the other day. She'd told him about meeting his son, the tale bringing her to tears in his living room, and Moe hadn't been able to stop the sorrow working its way through him.

So Gold had been a father once.

Losing his wife had been hard enough, but to lose a child... that was a kind of pain Moe didn't want to imagine, wouldn't wish on anyone. Iz hadn't said anything more on the matter, even when she'd come to the shop to buy flower seeds, and Moe knew better than to ask. He only got glimpses into his daughter's life now, and he didn't want to risk those glimpses being taken from him.

He still worried, daily, if she didn't call. Had to stop himself from calling her every night just to make sure she was alright. Once he'd found himself dialing Gold's number, just to see if she was there, but he'd hung up before the phone could ring. She was grown, but not on her own. Gold was taking care of her.

But as a father, he couldn't help but worry about her.

Especially since he'd been the one to call her.

* * *

Mary Margaret knocked again, gnawing on her lip. She and Izzy were supposed to met for lunch at noon, but when two o'clock rolled around and she hadn't heard from the bookworm, she headed over to the apartment to check on her friend. She, Ruby, and Izzy had run into each other at the diner the night before, and Izzy had looked a bit run down, pale and tired. Mary Margaret hoped she wasn't sick.

There was no sound inside, nothing to indicate anyone was home at all. The phone rang and rang when Mary Margaret called, the answering machine picking up rather than Izzy, and her cell went straight to voicemail.

A thought occurred to the teacher and she smiled even as a thread of annoyance sparked. She could have gone over to Richard's, fallen asleep after certain activities that Mary Margaret really didn't want to think about. At all. She'd been late to lunch a few times before, refusing to take off her scarf, her clothes rumpled. It wasn't out of the realm of possibilities to be sure.

Still, it bothered Mary Margaret that her friend wouldn't even contact her at all to explain. That wasn't like Izzy. Then again, if she really was getting sick, she'd do nothing but sleep for days until she was better. Richard probably realized she was ill and set her up at his place to look after her, not knowing she had plans. If Izzy had fallen asleep without telling him, Mary Margaret probably wasn't going to hear from her for a few days.

Satisfied that Izzy was most likely tucked safely into her boyfriend's bed, Mary Margaret headed back to her place. She had tests to grade, a lesson to plan, and Ruby was dead set on doing something tonight even though there was school tomorrow and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Mary Margaret was going to have to lock her door and pretend she wasn't home if she didn't want to get dragged out. Teaching fourth graders with a hangover was not an experience she wished to repeat.

* * *

Belle woke on the floor, body stiff and sore like she'd run for miles uphill. She lay on the hardwood for a minute, pajama shirt twisted uncomfortably around her neck, trying to get her mind to work. The way she was hurting, her hip protesting every movement, her shoulder stiff, arm numb, could mean that she'd fallen out of bed in her sleep. She hadn't done that in years, but she'd been spending a lot of nights over at Richard's, and his bed was much bigger than hers.

At least she wasn't with him now. He'd panic, as he always did when she fell or bumped into something, and then he'd laugh and she'd never live it down.

She bruised far too easily, and though the town wasn't very interested in them anymore, the rumor that Richard hit her would most likely go around a few more times, people watching them out of the corner of their eyes. Her friends never doubted her when she told them what really happened, because she'd been a klutz her entire life and always would be, but the rest of Storybrooke was a different matter.

Irritated at people, at herself for falling _again_- in her sleep no less, who did that?- Belle sat up, headed for her dresser.

Blinked once. Twice.

A car honked angrily, blowing past her with barely a hair's breath between them. Belle jumped back on the sidewalk, shaking, confused. Shook the mud out from her skirt, wondered when she'd changed, when she'd gone outside. When the sun had set? It had just been nine in the morning.

Hadn't it?

She blinked once. Twice.

"Isabelle? Are you alright?"

Turned to Graham, smiled wide. "Yes, sorry. I'm fine. I guess I just didn't see the car."

Graham put a hand on her shoulder, brown eyes concerned, mouth turned in a frown. "What car?" he asked, glancing around the lawn of her complex. They were on the grass, away from the road, empty due to the late hour, nowhere near the parking lot, full but with no one in it.

Belle blinked once. Twice.

In her bed, in her nightgown, warm under the covers.

Belle blinked once. Twice.

And slept.

* * *

She sat up with a groan. She was on the floor again.

Blinked once. Twice.

The room spun. Her head felt too big, weightless, floating high above everything. Her limbs wouldn't cooperate, nothing was in focus. Why was her couch where her bed should be- it didn't belong there. She was on the floor in her dining room, not her bedroom, but her couch was in there too, something was very, very wrong, so wrong.

Blinked once. Twice.

Her table was in the living room, the chairs clustered around her bed like an alter. Her couch was in her dining room, blocking the path to her kitchen. The oven door was open, but thankfully nothing was on. The fridge was unplugged, everything spoiled, the smell of rot floating from behind the door. Her bookcases were a disaster, books sideways or backwards on the shelves, some on the floor, open, pages ripped out and scattered.

Shaking, confused, and so, so scared, Belle went to work righting everything.

* * *

"You don't remember any of it?"

Belle sniffed, clutched the tissue in her hand. "No," she sobbed. "It's been happening more and more. Yesterday I woke up on the bathroom floor, holding the scissors."

Archie pushed his glasses up on his nose, fighting to keep his face calm. Isabelle was his friend, but she'd come to him for help, seeking out Dr. Hopper, not Archie, and right now he needed to be professional. She was clearly frightened. Showing any hint of fear for his friend would scare her even more.

"When do the blackouts usually occur?" he asked, keeping his voice soft and calm.

Her hands were shaking as she wiped her tears. She took a deep breath, more tears splashing onto her lap. "Randomly. I think." Her face crumpled. "It's hard to tell when I can't remember what I was doing, much less what time it is. I just blink and I'm somewhere else and I have no idea how I got there."

Archie had to stop himself from covering her hand with his. Professionally he wasn't supposed to touch his patients outside of a very brief hug, but this was Isabelle, and she was crying on his couch, and screw being professional. His friend needed him. She clutched his hand tightly, eyes- wide and frightened- on his.

"We're going to get through this," he assured her.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked desperately.

Archie knelt before her, her hands in his. "I don't know yet," he admitted, "but I'm going to help you, I promise." He handed her a tissue, wiped her tears. "But you have to be careful until we know what's triggering this blackouts. No driving, try to stick to the same routes every time you walk somewhere. I want you to make sure to have someone with you as often as possible, okay?"

Isabelle fidgeted, couldn't keep his gaze. "I haven't told Richard," she whispered. "I don't want to worry him."

"I know you don't, but if you black out when you're with him, that's going to worry him more than anything." Archie smiled softly. "I know he loves you, and part of loving someone is worrying about them all the time."

She smiled then, a weak half smile, so far from her blinding grin that his heart broke for her. She left with dry eyes, Archie smiling and laughing, but once the door was closed the smile melted away, his mind churning out possibilities and fears. He sank onto the couch, staring into the fire blankly.

Something was wrong with Isabelle, that much was obvious. His problem wasn't that he had no idea what it could be, it was that he knew several things it could be, had too many ideas, each one more horrible than the last. But he'd promised to help her. And help her he would.

* * *

Richard watched the clock, the sound of each second ticking way another tug on his already frayed nerves. He was tense and rigid, worry churning in his gut in a way that made him feel physically ill.

Belle was late.

She'd been late a lot. She'd been forgetting things a lot. Forgetting to lock her door before she left, forgetting her phone in random places, forgetting what day it was. At first it was normal things, things every person forgot. But then she'd forget her father's number when she went to call him. She'd forget her coat when it was snowing. She'd forget what path to take when walking in the woods, winding up miles away before she realized she was lost (that had absolutely frightened not only him but the Sheriff, who'd found her hours later, as well).

She'd been leaving her books everywhere, on the counter, in the bathroom, on the floor, in her bed, even in his car, and if Belle did one thing it was take care of her books. She never bent the corner of the page to mark her place- always a bookmark of some kind. When she was finished they went right back on the shelf, same place as before, spines facing outward.

Ruby had told him about her debit card. Mary Margaret had mentioned that she hadn't shown for lunch one day at all. Graham had found her standing outside her complex, staring blankly at the sidewalk, talking about cars. She'd seemed totally spaced out, barely said anything when he walked her inside, and they were all worried.

He knew she'd gone to see Dr. Hopper a few times and while the thought of Belle having to see a shrink worried him more than he could say, he took a little comfort in the fact that whatever was wrong with his Belle, she was at least getting some help, even if it wasn't from him.

He hadn't told her he knew, and he only knew because he'd seen her go into the waiting area and have a seat while waiting for coffee at the diner.

She would tell him when she was ready, Hopper was a good friend to her, a good psychologist, and until she was willing to talk about it he would wait.

And worry.

* * *

"Miss French?"

Belle blinked once. Twice.

Regina's face was a picture, startled and unsure. She stood awkwardly beside Belle, one hand halted in midair like she'd reached out to touch her but decided against it.

"Are you alright? I almost hit you."

Belle took in her surroundings, seeing for the first time where she was, realizing that once again things weren't right, but she was calm, so calm, her heart beating steady and sure against her ribs. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was right. It was okay though. It would all be okay.

"I'm in the middle of the street," she said.

Regina nodded slowly. "You just wandered out right in front of me." Very carefully she took hold of her arm, pulled her gently towards her car. "Why don't we get you to the hospital?" she asked, voice soft and quiet. "We'll go visit the doctor."

"I already saw the doctor," Belle said, suddenly dazed, unsure. "Archie. I saw Archie." Had that been yesterday? Had that been today?

She was floating above everything, crashed suddenly, the world tilting. It was trying to throw her off, she was hanging on for dear life, there was a hand on her elbow, leather under her, something across her middle, everything was spinning so fast, too fast, she couldn't hold on anymore and just flew.

Blinked once. Twice.

Bright lights, loud sounds, white, so much white, then green, then gray, then quiet.

"It's going to be alright," a voice cooed softly. "It's all going to be alright now."

"Richard," she whimpered. "Where's Richard?"

"It's alright," the voice said. "It's all alright."

Alright.

All alright.

The world spun.

Belle blinked once. Twice.

Eyes sliding closed, afraid of the spinning, not able to see. Something inside her elbow, a sharp prick, everything was heavy, so heavy but still spinning, always spinning.

"That's right. Sleep now."

Belle blinked once. Twice.

And slept.

* * *

**A/N:** DON'T KICK ME!


	5. Chapter 5

One.

* * *

Two.

* * *

Three.

* * *

Four.

* * *

Five.

* * *

Six.

* * *

Six months.

* * *

Six months. Two weeks. Eleven days.

Sixteen million, three hundred twenty nine thousand, six hundred seconds. Every one of them slipping by like a tangible thing. Every tick felt, every tock counted. Precious seconds. Long minutes. Countless eye blinks. Moments they could have had. Moments they should have had. Everything slipping by.

Waiting.

There was nothing to do but wait.

And hope.

And pray.

Sixteen million, three hundred twenty nine thousand, seven hundred fifty eight seconds.

And wait.

And hope.

And pray.

The time passed slowly, quickly, not at all, all at once. The same thing repeated. The sun goes up, down, the moon comes out, fades, again. Up, down, out, fade. Again. Count the seconds, hold them close.

And wait.

And hope.

And pray.

Sixteen million, three hundred twenty nine thousand, nine hundred and five seconds. Another tick. Another tock. Everything stands still but the flow moved on, leaving everything else behind. Up, down, out, fade. Again. Up, down, out, fade. Again. Was it even real? Did it even really happen?

Sixteen million, three hundred thirty five thousand, three hundred sixty five seconds.

And wait. (For what?)

And hope. (For what?)

And pray. (For him.)

* * *

The bright blue walls weren't his. The books on the shelves surrounding him weren't his. The brown comforter wrapped around him wasn't his, but he knew them all well. Richard rolled onto his stomach, clutching the pillow, burrowing his face in it and inhaling deeply, searching for a trace, even a hint.

Six months.

Six achingly long months.

He'd tried to find some semblance of normal, tried to be something close to himself. He was slightly afraid of what (who) he was becoming (so very close to the person he never wanted to be again but no one was here to stop him or care).

Rent had been collected. Collateral had been taken. It had rained. It had snowed. Flowers had bloomed (Brandon's flowers bloomed without her). Flowers had withered (they died without her). Customers came. Customers went. The same day, the same things, the same mindless chatter, idle gossip, and none of it mattered.

Six months, two weeks, and eleven days had passed.

And no one had seen Belle.

If Regina was to be believed (and she wasn't because she was Regina and she was Up To Something), she was the last person to ever see Belle. She'd taken a confused Belle to the hospital after nearly hitting her with her car, Whale had been called, rushed in to see her, but he hadn't. No one had seen her because she'd vanished when no one was looking, while no one was watching. And she was gone.

Just like that.

She was gone.

Mary Margaret combed every inch of the hospital with the other volunteers. Sheriff Graham lead a search into the woods, a group of people that got smaller and smaller each day until not even the sheriff himself could look any more. Ruby hung up posters, retraced steps, called everyone five times, and then another ten just to make sure. Moe closed up shop, spent his days elsewhere, just him and a bottle of something.

Richard felt he should do something about that, surely Belle would want her father in good health when she returned.

But the truth was it took all of his strength just to get out of bed. He could barely manage to look after himself now (he was actually _falling_ _behind_ collecting rent- he'd shirked that duty to the point that people were calling _him_ to remind him about dues). He had to consciously get through the day, remind himself to eat, to drink, to go to work, had to make himself take steps, make himself think, make himself breathe. He couldn't manage another person at the moment.

Because Belle was gone.

She was always gone.

And it had been six months, two weeks, and eleven days since Richard had been able to sleep more than two hours at a time. Since he'd been able to function.

Able to think.

Able to breathe.

A great crushing weight had settled on his chest, his bones cracking, splintering off, lodging in his veins. His lungs blew air out, took none in, refused to expand, to work to take in the air they needed to help him survive. That's all he was doing. That's all anyone was doing. Surviving. The small town of Storybrooke, Maine, had lost its sunshine, its small ray of light, and now they were missing the warmth.

They were missing her.

_He_ missed her.

He couldn't sleep.

He never slept.

Richard held his breath, body jerking with the need to release some of the pain, to let go, but he refused the tears. If he cried he would be mourning, and he would not mourn her. You could not mourn for those who were still alive.

And she was still alive.

Belle was alive.

But it had been six months, two weeks, and now twelve days, and Richard could not sleep.

His bed no longer smelled like her, so he'd retreated to hers, curling under the covers like a babe, trying to shield himself from the painful truth of being in her bed without her. With the covers over his head, his face in her pillow, he could still catch traces of her scent- her perfume, her shampoo. It allowed him oblivion for a brief time, which he grasped with both hands. He couldn't find her if he didn't take care of herself.

But now... now even her bed no longer smelled of her.

How dare her bed no longer smell of her.

Instead it smelled of him.

Just him.

It was just him, alone in a small bed not his own, unable to sleep. Unable to breathe. Unable to close his eyes because he saw _her_ when he closed his eyes, he felt _her_ when she was not there and it was torture, the worst kind of pain, to feel her and have it be a lie.

The bed hadn't smelled like her in months.

And Richard couldn't sleep.

* * *

"He's not doing so well."

"Gold or Moe? 'Cus I haven't seen Moe around unless it's at the liquor store and even that's been awhile."

"He hasn't drank since her mom died... but Gold, goodness have you seen him? I don't think he's slept in days."

"Or eaten. He's never been a big guy but his clothes are like swimming on him now. All those designer suits and none of them fit him anymore. He hasn't collected rent from us yet either, Granny had to call him yesterday to see if he was coming or not. God, I never thought I'd see the day when I was worried about Gold."

"Someone has to be. Iz- Belle won't like finding either of them in the states they're in."

"You take Moe I take Gold? I really don't want Belle coming back to kick our asses because the men in her life pulled a stupid."

* * *

Moe curled his fingers around the bottle. He didn't remember what was in it or what had been in the others. The time, the drink, they all blurred together. He'd lost so much already. His wife to illness. His money to trying to save her. His happiness with her. And now he'd lost his little girl too.

But he'd lost her long before she'd vanished.

To Gold.

He'd taken his little girl from him. Taken the smiles, kept them for himself, hidden them away in that forsaken pawn shop, that big empty house. The empty house he filled with her. The empty house she'd gone to willingly, had spent the night in, had stayed in.

She'd gone to Gold, and Gold had kept her.

He'd tried to if not trust the man at least be happy for his girl. He thought she'd be taken care of if nothing else. Have plenty of money, never want for anything. Hell, she'd probably get her own personal library out of the deal- Gold had already given her more than enough books to see to that. Moe thought, hoped, wished, prayed that everything would end well. But Gold had kept his secrets, and he'd kept Isabelle.

And Moe had lost her.

She'd fallen in love with a monster and it had cost her- her name changed (she called herself Belle, she'd never called herself that before him), her mind gone. And now she was gone too. Lost in the world, alone, afraid, unsure. His little Isabelle (because she was not Belle, she was more than that). Gold threw money at search parties, hired detectives, vanished himself for days at a time, returning disheveled, tired, and a bit more hopeless each time. That damn fool was chasing ghosts and they all knew it.

No one knew what had happened to Isabelle French. No one knew what had happened to her mind in those last few months, the time she'd lost, the events she'd forgotten. She'd tried to go for help (and Gold did nothing, only watched, he didn't help her) but nothing helped her.

And she was gone.

Moe shook the last drop from the bottle, felt it burn onto his tongue.

They were both gone. And soon, if he was lucky, he'd be gone too. Maybe he'd go to wherever they were. His wife. His little girl. They'd be there waiting for him.

They were waiting.

He just had to get to them.

* * *

The angry buzzing of his phone didn't wake him because he hadn't slept. His voice was thick from months of unshed tears, and his heart, long dead in his chest, stuttered at the name on the screen.

_Sheriff. Sheriff._

Was this it? Was this The Call? The call that proclaimed the most wanted news: Belle had been found, come see. But how has she been found? Alive and well, confused, a bit out of sorts, but she's alright now, no need to worry any more, come down to the hospital and see for yourself, she's asking for you.

Or had she been found, come down to the morgue, we need a positive identification?

_Sheriff. Sheriff._

Either way. He needed to know.

Frightened (but not hopeful, he didn't allow himself hope anymore, it lead to disappointment and smashed dishes), he flipped open the buzzing mobile, trying, at least, to sound in control of himself.

"Gold."

"Gold, there's a problem."

Not the words he was expecting, and certainly not the words he needed to hear. There was always a problem. Everyone had problems. He had problems. _Belle was not here_, _that was his problem_. It was everyone's problem. It was Ruby's problem, who couldn't manage a convincing fake smile. It was Mary Margaret's problem, who clutched a borrowed book like a lifeline. It was Moe's problem, who was vanishing slowly down a bottle.

"It's Moe French," the Sheriff said breathlessly. "I think he's trying to kill himself."

"What makes you say that?" Richard asked, even as he hastily snatched up his clothes. Gods, this was the last thing he needed, a suicidal Moe, another reason to be paranoid and panicked and not nearly the version of himself he needed to be.

"He was admitted to the hospital just an hour ago. You'd better get down here."

* * *

"Mary Margaret went to check on him and found him on the floor, unresponsive. She gave him CPR, kept him breathing." Graham ran a hand through unruly hair. "It was close, but they've stabilized him for now."

"Alcohol?" Richard questioned softly, eyes rooted to the man before him. Belle had mentioned once that it had been her father's vice of choice after her mother's death. He drank too much too often, crashed the car, nearly lost Belle to Child Services before he straightened up. He hadn't touched a drop since, not even a swallow on New Year's, but the smell was unmistakable.

Graham let out a breath. He knew Moe's history. "If only it was just that. I couldn't make out most of Whale's medical jargon, but basically Moe's not slept, eaten, or taken care of himself in any way possible. He'd done nothing but drink for what looks like at least four days. No food or water was in his system and his body just shut down."

Moe moaned, eyelids twitching. They opened to reveal bloodshot eyes in puffy, sunken sockets, skin stretched thin over a skull. Tears escaped, ran down pale cheeks.

"Do you know where you are Mr. French?" Graham asked.

Richard tilted his head, studied the disappointing man before him. How could he do this to Belle?

"He knows," he said quietly, rage building. "He's wondering why he's here. Why he's not dead. Why he's not rotting in some rat hole somewhere."

"Gold-"

"You don't get to check out, Mr. French. You don't get to be the one to give up. You are her father and so you do not have that option. You are going to be here when she is brought home because she will want you to be. Leaving her, _giving up on her_, is not a choice you have. Do you hear me?"

More tears, tears Richard could not shed, running down this man's face. Moe spoke quietly, softly, the words impacting like a ton of bricks, the rest of Richard melting into a ball of rage, boiling through him.

"She's dead." He shook his head, body shaking with the sobs. "She's dead. I know it. He knows it. The whole damn town knows it. Just admit it Gold. She's gone forever. You lost her."

His cane only hit the foot of the bed and not the man in it because Graham was quick enough to push him back. Gold was fighting against him, something hot in his eyes, something powerful threatening to break free, dangerous and wild.

"YOU DON'T GET TO SAY THAT," he roared, losing ground, Graham pushing him towards the door, trying to calm him with words he couldn't hear. "YOU GAVE UP THE SECOND SHE WAS GONE. _YOU DO NOT GET TO SAY THAT_."

"Gold, that's enough. That's enough! Gold!"

Fragile glass between them, the Sheriff pushing him towards the waiting area, people staring but he didn't care, and then there was another set of hands, pulling him firmly, yanking him around to face long brown hair streaked with red, steely eyes, and a smart smack across the face that stunned him as much as her.

"Stop it," Ruby hissed. "Belle doesn't need this."

"Ruby-" Graham tried, unsure if he should arrest her for striking the town attorney or kiss her popping Gold to get him to calm down.

"And what is _this_, Miss Lucas?" Gold questioned, sounding ancient and powerful, like old forgotten magic, the villain of Storybrooke here again.

"Don't you Miss Lucas me, _Mr. Gold_. You know damn well what." She stood straight, defiant. "Belle does not need her father in the hospital, but he is. She does not need you getting sick because you won't eat or sleep, but you're getting there. And she sure as hell does not need you in jail because her dad has lost too much already and you want to do something stupid." Eyes bright, more tears, more he's unable to shed so she did for him. "What do you want her to come back to: Gold, sitting in jail, or Richard, waiting for her?"

Silence, breath held, Graham's hand resting on his cuffs just in case, but Richard folded into a chair, Ruby clutching his arm. His hand covering his face, body shaking, and if Graham wasn't there he wouldn't have believed it. Humanity, raw and angry before him in the form of a very frightened man.

"Her dad's messed up, alright? He's not dealing too well. None of us are," Ruby said with a sniffle. "So she's going to need you to be the strong one now."

"Strong," he scoffed, voice wavering. "I've never been strong, Miss Lucas. And she's not here to help me stand."

And Ruby did the one thing she never in her life thought she'd do.

She wrapped her arms around Gold's shoulders (and he'd never been so far from that landlord, he was just Richard, scared Richard who didn't know what to do), held on tight.

"Then I'll give you a hand, okay?"

He wished he could cry, wished the tears would pour from him, let some of this pain escape him. But none came. He accepted Ruby's comfort, was grateful for the tears she was able to shed, and he shook.

* * *

Six months, three weeks, and two days.

* * *

Seventeen million, one hundred seven thousand, two hundred seconds.

(She's still counting.)

(She's still waiting.)

* * *

Mary Margaret volunteered at the hospital for two reasons. One: she liked doing some good. The hospital was often short on people willing to decorate for the holidays, to bring some amount of cheer to those who would be stuck in white walls. She didn't have a family to celebrate with and had no problem reading _T'was the Night Before Christmas_ roughly eighty times in one night to make some children smile.

There were gross aspects (bodily fluids, enough said) but she got a certain satisfaction out of knowing a job was done.

Two: being a teacher meant downtime. A lot of downtime. She only had so many papers to grade, so many lessons to plan, before Mary Margaret found herself sitting at home, twiddling her thumbs. She didn't have many hobbies- or friends who could hang out in the early evenings and then let her go home for her early mornings- and she needed something to do that got her out of the house while still being productive.

Even if being productive meant being stuck in a filing room with old, wet files that smelled faintly of mildew. For three days.

Mary Margaret donned a new pair of gloves, wondering idly if she could wrestle the old rusty window up any higher to let in more fresh air. The breeze was blowing, it was actually a decent day out, but the musty smell still lingered. Really it was a small miracle the old data clerk had lasted as long as she had before she'd run screaming from the building, demanding an outside job.

Well, she hadn't _really_ run screaming, but Mary Margaret wouldn't have blamed her if she had.

All in all, volunteering wasn't such a bad gig. She actually did get paid, despite the volunteer title, due mainly to the fact that she'd been the only one to stick around for years so she knew the ins and outs like she knew her own apartment. She also had special clearance, her own set of keys, and knew what codes to call out over the intercom should she need someone pronto.

Mary Margaret had never thought about any actual need to volunteer- it was more of an I'm-doing-this-because-it-makes-me-feel-good deal. It wasn't something she spent a lot of time thinking about, or being thankful for. She got frustrated at it sometimes, but there were moments when she was glad she was where she was, when she was. Offering a smile to a sick child. Visiting an elderly patient who hadn't seen a friendly face in weeks.

Coming across a new file, obviously shoved in the wrong place, not meant for anyone's eyes.

_Patient file: Isabelle French_

_Ward: Asylum_

Mary Margaret's heart began to beat very, very fast. She knew this hospital. She knew every inch of it. Or so she thought. Because there was one door she'd never been behind, a locked door she assumed lead towards surgery ward, a shortcut for the doctors to take, where she wasn't allowed no matter how many keys jangled on her belt.

Mary Margaret didn't know much about committing someone, but a quick glance at Izzy's file turned her stomach. She knew it couldn't be right. Where was Izzy's choice in all this? She had a say, didn't she? This couldn't be legal.

Not allowing herself to think about it (she couldn't feel guilty about this, Izzy needed her), Mary Margaret stuffed the file into her purse, seconds before Whale poked his head in.

"Hey, Miss Blanchard. Ready for a break yet?"

Mary Margaret managed a smile, a stack of random papers in her hands to hide the shaking. "Yeah, yeah. I think... I'll head out for lunch now, grab something to eat, just a quick bite."

"Okay. Uh, see you later then?"

A quick nod (please don't let her knees shake), a brisk pace, pretending to dump the keys back at the nurse's station (they were hers but they weren't supposed to leave the building but she clutched them in her fist and took them too), and then Mary Margaret was flying out the door, phone in hand, fingers shaking too badly to hit more than one number, infinitely glad she had assigned speed dials.

"Hey, it's me. I think I found something." Get in the car, lock the doors. "I'm not entirely sure what to do." A crazy laugh, a few tears. "I think I just committed a crime though."

A calm voice on the other end. "Well, hell. First time for everything. Come over. Let's commit another one."

"Kidnapping?" Mary Margaret suggested, the file open in her lap.

"Sure," Ruby agreed easily.

"I'm not kidding."

"Who are we taking?"

"Ruby... I found Izzy. And this is big, bad, all kinds of scary, and definitely not legal."

Silence, then the sound of a door closing, the background chatter fading until it was gone. Ruby took a deep breath, the line crackling when she exhaled. "Shit. Okay. Come over, don't stop anywhere, and let's figure this out. Should I call Gold?"

"No, not yet." First they had to figure this out, they had to have a plan before Gold heard about this and decided to kill people.

Mary Margaret tossed the file under her seat, aware of the fact that if Gold went on a killing spree, she wouldn't be able to find it in her to blame him one bit, didn't think she'd even offer up a protest to stop him.

Hell, she might even join him.

* * *

**A/N:** Updated early! Work asked me to pull a double the next two days, so I'd be too busy and/or tired to update on Friday like I usually do. Also the next chapter miiiight be a wee bit late. On top of work I also have a family gathering to attend to on the weekend and some home projects. Let me know what you guys think!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Since you guys were so patient and I had a day off, SURPRISE UPDATE! Please review :D

* * *

Gold stared at his phone with the faintest air of surprise. _M. Blanchard_ didn't call him very often, and when she did it was usually to inform him she'd collected the building's rent from the tenants and currently had the money just sitting in her apartment, so please come get it because that much cash on her kitchen table made her nervous.

Miss Blanchard had been one of the few people to force him into normalcy (or as close to normal as he was capable of getting). When he failed to collect rent on any of the apartments in her building she went door to door and gathered it herself, then would force him to come get it. She never delivered it to him, only called to say it was ready and waiting. She had a way with words that made her babbling sound like a command even as she formed them into a request (he supposed it came from being a teacher where you had to be gentle yet firm), and he followed her instructions automatically because he didn't have it in him to even argue.

He was actually grateful for that in a way. Had she delivered the money to him, not held it hostage to give him a reason to venture out into the land of the living, she would have seen the state he was slowly, but surely, falling into.

His house had always been cluttered, one of the perils of owning a small pawn shop, but now it was actually _dirty_. The dishes piled in his sink stuck together when he finally ran out of clean ones and had to wash them, the crumbs of half eaten dinners working better than glue and forcing him to scrub for a good half hour before his sink was empty (he then had to scrub his sink, alarmed and disgusted at the sight of mold threatening to grow around the drain).

He was slightly afraid to go into his laundry room. He was fairly certain his clothes could now move on their own and wouldn't be surprised if he attempted to wash his socks only to have them escape out the window. So Gold shut the door firmly, told himself he needed to get out more, and just bought more socks. Popping out to the drug store for a packet of twelve count black socks didn't really qualify as _out_, but it was all he could manage before he found himself wanting to introduce his cane to people's faces.

He'd had that urge before, but now he was painfully aware that no one was around to stop him.

The world was impossibly small now, the one thing he truly cared about gone, leaving a vast void he couldn't begin to fill. The world used to be filled with books and smiles and laughter and secrets shared, and now it consisted of the house (because it wasn't home), the shop (distinctly silent and empty), and of him. He was alone in the world and so his world became just him. No one spoke to him (though they spoke of him, there goes poor Mr. Gold, lost the only person who could have ever loved him), and he spoke to no one.

Was this the price of love then? To give your heart so entirely to another person that you're left with nothing when they leave? And they always left. Maria, Brandon, Belle... everyone he'd ever loved had left him until his heart was nothing more than a sad, tired old thing with barely enough left to keep itself going. Love used to be such a wonderful notion- hope and light and joy where before there was none. But now it was a sickness. A disease. One that, unfortunately for him, was impossible to shake (and he did not want to shake it, there was that small bit that reminded him how wonderful it had been and could be again).

And it was love for Belle. Belle, who was wonderful and pure and all things bright. Belle was not Maria and she was not Brandon, but she did love him.

And he loved her.

And for her, he would let himself hope.

Ruby- _Miss Lucas_, Ruby was Belle's friend and they were not friends, she was just someone who for some reason cared if he ate or slept or put on clean clothes- had taken to leaving baskets of food on his doorstep. She never knocked or attempted to speak to him, and he only ever saw her leaving, never arriving. Sometimes he missed her altogether, opening the door to get his mail and seeing a wicker basket with warm food waiting.

The food gave him enough energy to get through the day on what little sleep he'd managed the night before. Gold began thinking there was something behind Belle's claims that Ruby- Miss Lucas- knew everything after he'd attempted sleep in Belle's apartment only to find a familiar basket sitting innocently in the hall the next morning. Somehow the gesture of kindness hurt, reminding him that he wasn't caring for himself and so others were doing it for him- for Belle. He was confident that none of Miss Lucas's or Miss Blanchard's meddling was in any part for his benefit.

But Gold never protested, because they were both right.

Belle would be back, and she would want him in top shape. Her father had yet to be released from the hospital, so he had to pick up the slack. If that meant trudging through each day, limping towards a version of himself that seemed to get further and further away with each passing second, then so be it.

His phone buzzed again, _M. Blanchard_ refusing to hang up. Rent had been collected only last week, leaving the reason behind a phone call at two in the afternoon on a Saturday a mystery. Had someone forgotten to pay? Asked for an extension? (Miss Blanchard was more sympathetic to people's claims and tended to allow an extra week here or there- he really should get back to collecting rent himself before people started to think they didn't have to pay at all. Or worse, that he'd gotten soft.) Maybe Miss Lucas was tired of keeping him alive and had passed the job along.

"Gold," he said, too tired to care if he didn't sound like himself. He didn't need to pretend with Miss Blanchard. She knew he was very far from Richard, was almost entirely Mr. Gold now, but was at least willing to try and be him again (he needed to know he _could_ be Richard again, that somewhere, deep in the black depths of his soul, beat the same heart that had fallen in love).

"Mr. Gold, I need some help."

Immediately, Gold was on edge. Mary Margaret wasn't someone to come apart easily, but there was something hysterical in her tone, an edge that bordered on panic that had him sitting straight in his chair.

"Help of the legal kind?" he questioned, searching the counters and floor for his keys. Where the hell had he put his keys?

"Yes," admitted the tiny voice on the other line. "I definitely need legal help." The sound of a door shutting, the creak of her floor as she walked. "Is there any way you can come to my apartment? I just..." A sigh mixed with a laugh, he could almost see her shaking her head, an unsure smile fixed on her lips. "Please come."

He could not refuse her, and that was proof that something of Richard must live in him still. He spotted his keys in the living room and stood, shoving his feet into his shoes. He grabbed his coat, switching the phone to his other ear as he dressed.

"I'll be there shortly," he said, wondering all the while what mild-mannered Miss Blanchard could have possibly done to warrant needing a lawyer.

* * *

"I stole something," she blurted as the door shut behind him. "And then I took something out of the hospital that I promised I'd never take out and then I called Ruby and we went back in to steal something else and then... and then we, well I, I did this, Ruby can't get in trouble for this because it was all me, she had no part in this. Or maybe she did because she was the distraction, but she was unconscious so she can't really be held accountable can she? I mean, we did it for good reasons, but I'm sure people say all the time they had good intentions when they break the law, but I'm pretty sure the law was broken before we even knew it, but I-"

"You," Gold broke in, "are clearly in the need of a comfortable chair and a warm cup of tea. Laced with whiskey, perhaps." He took a seat at her island counter, resting his cane carefully on the edge of the stool. "Take a deep breath and try again."

Mary Margaret crossed her arms, studying him, then uncrossed them and leaned against the counter, staring into her sink without blinking. She inhaled through her nose, blowing the breath out through her lips before meeting his gaze.

"I stole something," she said, her voice low and calm.

"Yes, got that," Gold informed her.

"I also committed at least three other crimes that I can think of."

"All of this was done today?"

Mary Margaret nodded once. She seemed entirely too calm now, none of the panic from the minute before obvious, as if the anxiety had all been imagined on his part. She stood before him like a queen addressing her court about a war. She knew what she was saying was bad, and that he probably wasn't going to like it, but it needed to be said, and so she would say it.

"Well," Gold said lightly, "you've certainly had a busy morning then." There was a headache brewing behind his eyes. He hadn't slept at all the night before and now, of all times, he was feeling the consequences. "Where is Miss Lucas?"

Mary Margaret looked a tad sheepish. "In the hospital," she admitted. At Gold's look, caught somewhere between surprise and amused confusion, she began to pace, twisting her hands together. She was nervous again, a queen no more, just a school teacher talking to her lawyer. "She distracted everyone by fainting in the middle of the waiting room."

"She can faint on cue?"

"I'm pretty sure she took something to make her pass out actually, but don't ask me what or how she got it. She's Ruby, she can get or do anything. But that's not the point. The point is..." Mary Margaret whirled around, palms on the counter. "The point is I broke into a locked ward of the hospital using sort of stolen keys because I read something in a file that I actually did steal." She brought her hands up to her face, covered her eyes and groaned. "And let me tell you, I am _not_ cut out to be a thief."

"Most people would consider that a good thing," Gold quipped. "And yet you're bemoaning your lack of thieving skills."

"Yeah, well, most people don't go around breaking into secret mental wards that are hidden in hospital basements we didn't even know we had."

For a moment, Gold was thrown. But only for a moment- he wasn't the best lawyer in Storybrooke for nothing. He could- and had before- handle curveballs. He took them quiet well, was able to shape them into his favor with little more than sneaky words and their tangled webs. He could spin anything from those webs, but first he had to focus on them, get the whole story, not just the pieces Miss Blanchard was able to spit out.

"...I'm sorry?"

Mary Margaret peeked at him from between her fingers. "The hospital has a secret asylum behind a locked door."

"And you found it by stealing a file?"

"No, well, yes. That's not why I called you."

The headache began to pound in his head. Gold tried to rub it away. "Then why did you call me, Miss Blanchard? Because I-"

"The file had Izzy's name on it, so I stole it, and took my keys out of the hospital, which I'm not supposed to do because I could get fired for that, but I really don't care about that right now, and I called Ruby and we went back in and she fainted and I snuck in and around the nurses and found Izzy and got her out and we snuck back out and left and she's asleep on my bed right now."

And everything stopped.

Gold had to physically remind himself to breathe. "Belle...?" he managed.

Mary Margaret strode across her living room, quietly pulled back a curtain to reveal a double bed with light colors, an iron frame, and brown curls splayed across the pillow.

She was curled on her side, one hand fisted by her face, knees drawn to her chest, mouth slightly parted, her breath wheezing softly in little huffs, her not quite snore she refused to admit she made but he loved to tease her about. The sound he'd lived without for months, the sound that meant she was sleeping and safe and she was making it right now and she was _there_, she was _right there in front of him_.

Belle.

It was Belle.

His throat worked, trying to release the words clambering in his mouth, but nothing came out, nothing but strangled sounds and gasps and his eyes burned with all those unshed tears that he still could not release. His fingers scrambled for his cane. Even with its help, would he be able to stand? The weight had been lifted from him, leaving him shaking and weak, his knees unbending slowly but his feet would not move, would not go to her even now, now that she was here and so, so close.

The island counter was sturdy beneath his hand, keeping him upright because he could not do it himself. Mary Margaret raised one hand as if to reach for him, to help him even from across the room. Neither of them moved, and finally Gold gave in to the shaking, collapsing clumsily back onto the stool.

"She's been sleeping since she got here," Mary Margaret said quietly, as though the sound of her voice might break him. "I tried to get her to eat, but she just fell asleep after a shower..." She trailed off, unsure if he could even hear her.

"She's... alright?" He hated the desperation in his voice even as his heart, so long dead, began to drum an unsteady beat to make up for the months of quiet.

A small shrug, something old in the voice of a woman so young. "She knows where she is and where she was, if that's what you mean." Mary Margaret studied him, suddenly not a queen or a teacher but more like a bandit hiding her treasure, unsure if she could trust him but knowing that she should. "I don't think she was really taken care of in there. She's really thin, and she said the sunlight hurt her eyes. There wasn't a mattress for her and there weren't even _lights_ in her cell."

Her cell.

Someone had taken his Belle, his beautiful, wonderful, amazing Belle, and thrown her into a _cell_? A cell without lights, without sunshine... they'd just tossed her in there to waste away. Someone had done this to her, had stolen her away and locked her up, away from the world.

Someone would pay for that.

He was unable to tear his gaze from her, still sleeping, now safe, merely a few feet from him. His voice was low, but it was sharp, somewhere in a place where Richard and Gold mixed, and Mary Margaret wondered who would have the most wrath, the lover or the lawyer, and realized he was both and more powerful now than he'd ever been as either.

"Start from the beginning," he ordered her. "Tell me everything."

Mary Margaret left the curtain open so he could steal glances, assure himself that she was not going to vanish as soon as he looked away. She pretended not to notice, bless her, she was very subtle when she needed to be, and went about making tea, spinning her tale as the kettle whistled.

She told him of how she snuck past the doctors and nurses, no one paying any attention to someone who was there all the time, even if she was obviously nervous. She told him how Ruby had let herself fold onto the floor, her head hitting hard enough to draw Whale's attention. She told him how she jammed her master key in the lock when no one was looking, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it but the door opened regardless, and she slipped down a dark staircase, relieved beyond all belief that there was no one at the desk sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

She'd crept quietly down the hallway anyway in case there was someone around the corner, waiting to pounce, every inch of her a tangled bunch of nerves stretched thin. But the corner was turned and an empty hallway yawned before her, larger than she'd imagined, more doors than she'd pictured stretching before her. No names on the doors, all of them locked from the outside. Were there more people trapped down here? Who had put them here?

But the rooms were empty, each door opening to an empty room, quiet and unused.

Except one.

There was one room, the fifth door on the left side, that wasn't empty, that had something locked away, inches of steel between them and the outside world. A thin woman with frizzy curls in desperate need of a good brushing, curled in on herself at the edge of her cell, sitting much like a cat trying to stay in the small sunbeam- small and unobtrusive, but desperate for that warmth and unwilling to move.

And now Mary Margaret was not quiet, throwing open the lock and the door, the creaks and groans of metal scraping open echoing down the hallway. The woman turned to the sound, blinking at the sudden flood of artificial light in the small room, at the figure standing in her door. A door that was never opened unless nurses filled the empty space (and that had been only once, a memory she preferred not to think about), meals deposited through a small flap that was pulled shut quickly, only a flash of light and the slap of metal on metal to indicate that it had been open at all.

"Izzy," Mary Margaret breathed, tears springing to her eyes, but the woman didn't- couldn't- move, frozen at the sight of her. Everything in her screamed to run to the woman before her, wrap her arms around her and scream and cry, but neither could move, neither could believe it, afraid it was still, somehow, a lie. (And wouldn't that be the cruelest of things? Freedom dangled before her in an illusion only to be yanked away.)

Mary Margaret swallowed her sobs and tried again. There would be time for tears later, but they had to get out, quickly and now. "Belle," she said, voice wavering slightly but still strong, and then they were both moving, meeting in the middle of the small room, reaching for each other, grabbing an arm or a hand to make sure, to _prove_ the other was real.

And Belle smiled, almost laughing through the tears. "Tell me you're here to get me out," she begged, and she was the Belle Mary Margaret remembered, not the empty shell she'd expected or feared.

"Yes," Mary Margaret promised. "Only, if we get caught we're in big trouble, so we have to leave right now," she said in a rush, tugging on Belle's hand to lead her out. "Ruby was the distraction on the way in, but we're on our own on the way out." A peek into the hallway to ensure they were still alone, Mary Margaret reaching into her large purse to pull out folded cloth. "Put these on. Scrubs will draw attention."

Clothes changed, blue scrubs abandoned on a too-cold concrete floor, long curls shoved under a cap plucked off Mary Margaret's own head, hands linked, faces etched in worry (that, at least, blended in with the hospital, there were too many worried faces here to focus on two more). Their steps strong and sure, but hurried and unwilling to stop, destination in sight, and Mary Margaret and Belle walked out the front door.

"And then I brought her here," Mary Margaret finished. "She slept most of the time, but-" She stopped, eyes fixing on something over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at her lips before she looked back at him.

Richard turned.

Stood.

Fell back against the counter when he was caught around the middle, momentum and shaking limbs sending him careening painfully backwards, the corner of the counter catching him against the spine, but he only felt the pain for a moment.

His arms were full of her, warm and real and alive, curls tumbling over his hands, through his fingers, her arms around him, squeezing him, her shoulders shaking with breathless, quiet laughter and a small amount of tears. He trembled violently, unable to form other than the most basic, most necessary of words, _you're safe, I've got you, I love you, I love you, I love you_.

Belle buried her face in his chest, his scent, his wonderful scent surrounding her. He was different now. Thinner, the words coming more easily to him, spoken aloud and with ease. His hair was longer, weighted down by the length, brushing his shoulders. Flashes of gray streaked through the brown, running from his temple to disappear into the light brown locks. His eyes were painfully human just then, brimming with tears that threatened to spill, the warm brown older somehow, roving over her, checking to be absolutely sure she was alright.

"Belle, oh my Belle." (His voice was wonderful and soft, the power still there, still waiting, and so full of the love she knew he possessed, even before.)

He was still the man she loved, the man who loved her, and she clung to him now. The months apart had been torture, and she remembered every single second of every single minute. But she was here now, and he was holding her, and for this moment, just this one moment, everything was alright.

"Hi," she said through tears. Her voice was dusty from so little use, her throat already sore, but she had to tell him, she _had_ to. "I love you," she whispered, voice cracking in the end, but she felt his smile against her forehead, his lips resting against her skin. "I love you," she said again, her voice much stronger now, the words from her so long overdue, a confirmation to chase away his doubts.

"Yes," he said reverently, awe and wonder filling his tone. This perfect woman, this amazing, wonderful, beautiful creature was in his arms and loved him. _She loved him_. "And I love you too."

And he always would.

The kiss was more overdue than the words, their lips meeting gently, carefully, because they were both sure of each other, knew the other, loved each other (two parts of her blending, meshing together, both filled with so much joy because he was here and holding her and he loved her). Her heart's wants and needs hadn't changed, even spanning time and worlds, and there was no doubt she was exactly where she needed to be: in his arms.

And in the end it didn't matter what was different. His face, his name, she loved him all the same. No matter what life they lead, what names they went by. No matter the time, no matter the world, magic or no magic.

He was not the Dark One here. He was not Rumplestiltskin, her imp. He wasn't even Mr. Gold. Right now he was Richard, a man who was somehow a mix of all three, a careful blend of love and power and ancient knowledge. And despite all the trials, the anger, the fear, the worry, despite being Mr. Gold for so long, unaware of who he was to her, he still fell in love with her all over again.

True love had won in the end.

And not even the Evil Queen could take that away from them.

"Richard," she sobbed, because that was not his name but that was who he was. She felt his arms tighten around her, as though he intended to hold her in this manner for the rest of his life.

"Shhh, my Belle," he murmured into her hair. "I'm here. We're together. I've got you."

We're together.

I've got you.

_I've got you_.


	7. Chapter 7

He came home to a clean house.

Not clean as in 'Belle was bored and tidied up' but an absolutely spotless, everything shiny, no dust to be found anywhere, everything washed and mopped and put away kind of clean. Richard paused in the doorway for a moment, startled at the sight of his own house. It hadn't been this clean in months and he'd almost forgotten what it looked like with the curtains open, the sunlight shining merrily through the windows (Belle was, thankfully, not downstairs where neighbors could peek in and spy and see her, but cheerfully devouring books in the library, where the windows faced the backyard).

He had absolutely no idea where anything was now, the organized chaos more organized than chaos, but that was alright. A quick glance around revealed that Belle had even braved the laundry room (had the floor always been that color?), clothes folded neatly and resting atop the dryer, waiting to be put away.

Belle had taken up residence (was hiding) in his abode while everything was sorted. By sorted, of course, he meant he was looking for a way to pin Belle's lockup on Regina so he could murder her- literally or metaphorically in court. He would prefer the former, the only way to ensure that she wouldn't be able to even _look_ at Belle again, but would settle for the latter. He would be able to take her power from her, remove her from office, ensure that she would never hurt anyone again.

Unfortunately, Madame Mayor had taken great care to appear to be clean (which he knew she couldn't be, things like this didn't happen in Storybrooke without having Regina written all over them). Belle had never seen her after being dropped off, only the faces of a nurse or two, and therefore couldn't say for certain who'd actually locked her up. The file Mary Margaret had acquired had no names on it, just a summary of Belle's supposed "mental problems" and a list of falsified treatments.

Belle had looked over the file herself, pointing out what had and had not happened. She'd flat out told him that she'd never gotten out of the basement, never even seen the top floors of the hospital until Mary Margaret came. And the lawyer in him couldn't help but point out that she hadn't denied that some form of "treatment" had occurred.

Richard had the uneasy feeling that something bad had been done to Belle while she had been in that place. She didn't sleep very well, nightmares plaguing her every time she closed her eyes. She woke every night clawing at the sheets, screaming until her voice gave out, sobs wracking her body, the tears falling in waves. Only when he held her, his arms wrapped around her waist or shoulders, was she able to calm. But she wouldn't talk to him about it.

She wouldn't talk to him about anything.

Oh, she talked about what she was cooking for dinner, or what book she'd unearthed in his library. She talked about her day, what she'd found while cleaning when he'd been out. She asked about the history behind the random objects littered throughout the house. She managed a laugh or two. She spoke to him every day, words tumbling from her mouth but she never actually _said_ anything.

Ruby and Mary Margaret were inventing new reasons to sneak over and see her (Belle was not, under any circumstances, allowed to leave the house during the day), but she didn't speak to them either. She was interested in Ruby's fainting spell, Mary Margaret's thievery, but wouldn't tell any of them any more than they already knew. She'd been locked up, she remembered everything now, and she was fine, come see what she found in Richard's spare room this time.

She kept insisting she was fine, her smile plastered in place and believable if one didn't look too close.

None of them believed her.

Richard knew nothing about the mind other than how to play with it, plant seeds of doubt or worry that would sprout when convenient for him. He could rearrange someone's entire mind if he wanted to, make them think up was down, left was right, anything he wanted. However, to break into one and try and _fix_ things was something he was not adept at. And he didn't want to have to worm his way into Belle's head. He wanted her to tell him, to be completely honest with him, to tell him everything, the good and the bad. Especially the bad. He wanted to know everything that went through her mind.

And there was nothing wrong with Belle's mind- it was as sharp as ever. She was routinely wiping the floor with him in chess, sometimes in six moves or less. Every morning she snagged the newspaper to do the crossword in ink (she never got a single one wrong). She remembered every moment she spent in the hospital (she told him she remembered but wouldn't tell him _what_ she remembered and his mind spat out the worst ideas, each one more horrifying than the last), and pieces of the blackouts were slowly coming back to her, the time she'd lost returning.

"It's like I'm remembering a dream I had," she'd told him. "Things are all out of order and I'm doing things that make no sense, and all I can do is watch as everything unfolds, but I remember it all."

Richard was no doctor, but several medical textbooks informed him that no known mental illness fit what had happened to Belle, which left him frustrated (because now he could prove she wasn't insane but he still didn't know what had actually happened), delving further into the medical world. It wasn't until he began researching drugs that everything came together. More accurately, certain drugs and their side effects. There were several different drugs, most in the Statin family, that had a history of causing memory loss. The reports claimed all side effects went away as soon as the drug was gone from the system.

The forgetfulness, the memory loss, the tiredness she'd described, it all lined up.

He was confident in saying that Belle had been unknowingly drugged and that she had absolutely nothing wrong with her mind. Richard knew (but couldn't prove, why did the law fail when he needed it the most?) who had done it- or more accurately, who'd told someone to hire someone to do it, but he didn't know how it was done, or for how long. Whatever Belle had been dosed with hadn't been given to her in the hospital.

Unless it had been hidden in her food. Belle had admitted the food had tasted funny the first few weeks, but then tasted like any other hospital meal, which she'd had several of in her lifetime, sometime in the second month. The sole purpose of the drugging seemed to be to get her to the hospital.

The culprit had been under the impression that once Belle had been taken they'd have her for good and there was no reason to keep drugging her after the first month.

Richard had never been more furious in his life. They'd drugged Belle, made her, made _everyone_ think something was seriously wrong with her, that she'd lost her mind. They faked a mental illness just to lock her up, and when they had her, when she was broken and helpless, then, _then_ they gave her sanity back to her, making her aware of her situation. Letting her know she was helpless, letting her know everything was out of her control.

Showing her just how easy it was to break someone.

Showing him that she was not safe, and she was not safe only because he loved her.

He loved her, and it put her in danger. She'd been taken from him because he loved her, to show him what he was without her: a sad, unlovable old man in a big empty house.

But she was here now. He was trying to focus on that, but she was also _not_ here. She was elsewhere, eyes somewhere distant, conversations they never had hanging between them because he didn't want to push and she didn't want to say. She was the same, but she was entirely different, and it was starting to scare him. The books claimed she was sporting most of the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but his Belle was stronger than that, and she would not break so easily.

And yet...

Richard knew she wasn't telling him everything. Something else had happened, and his Belle was trying to bear the burden on her own, but it was proving to be too much. Despite her sunny smiles and constant assurance, Richard knew Belle was not completely fine, but she would not talk to him. She wouldn't tell him anything, and so he didn't know how to make it right and he was useless to her.

But she did need him, that much he knew. And it was strange, so strange, to realize that. He needed her like he needed to breathe, and Belle needed him like a drowning man needed land- in sight at all times and never more than a step or two away. Even though a month had passed and she was safely hidden away, Richard could never put in more than half a day at the shop before even that distance was too much and he found himself closing up to return home. No one thought it strange, he hadn't been himself in months, and those who did notice knew why.

Belle occupied herself with books and cleaning while he was away, but she was never able to stop doing either for more than a minute before she became aware of the empty spaces expanding around her, the rooms too big, the sun too bright, the world too loud, all surrounding her and making her so, so small. The library was the smallest room in the house and being surrounded by books made her feel a bit better, but she was not truly at ease unless he was there.

Mary Margaret and Ruby's visits helped, but leaving the house was dangerous, and she felt trapped, free, scared, and brave all at once. And she was so unsure and confused because her mind was still trying to piece it all together, trying to fit Isabelle and Belle both into her one body, both pasts fighting for control, promising her that both were real. Both were her, she was both, and she could scarcely believe she'd been lucky enough to fall in love with the same man twice.

She knew he didn't remember, not yet. Belle often had to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying his name, his true name, out loud. He was Richard here, she had to remind herself. Mr. Gold, the town attorney. He was not Rumplestiltskin. He was not The Dark One. He was still her beloved, and she his, and she focused on that to get her through the days.

Because although Rumplestiltskin and Richard were one and the same just as she was Izzy as well as Belle, she felt she was betraying her imp by falling for this human version. She actively had to remind herself that they were the same person and being in love with two halves of a whole didn't qualify as a betrayal anymore than him falling for her as Isabelle did.

And he was still her Rumplestiltskin. He looked different, but was every bit as beautiful as he had been before. He acted different and the same all at once, little moments of the imp bleeding through, and she was seeing it more and more now that she was awake. Richard was just a side of Rumplestiltskin that she and only she had seen in their land. He was still her true love, her heart still beat for him, and she had no doubt that his beat for her.

But he was not Rumplestiltskin yet because he didn't know, and so she had to keep quiet. She had the feeling that spouting off facts about fairytales and pointing out that Disney had it all completely wrong was not the best way to assure Richard that she was, in fact, alright.

Well. Almost alright.

The days were slowly becoming easy again, not as daunting without him. He was able to put in more hours at the shop (at her insistence that she wasn't going to fly into a panic and destroy things if he wasn't there for a few hours). She was able to spend time doing nothing, occupied with the tv or napping (the nightmares never bothered her when the sun was up). Now the days were actually becoming long and boring when she was out of things to clean or read.

The nights, however... they frightened her, terrified her. But she still found herself looking forward to them because that's when she could, and would, wrap herself entirely around him, safe for the moment. She was unabashedly happy that they were together, even if they were both a bit different, and both of them falling asleep together, arms around each other, was a sort of paradise she'd never imagined.

And then she would fall asleep.

And then she would dream.

He was so tuned into her, so aware of her that the moment her breathing got too heavy, the second she began to thrash in their bed, his eyes would snap open. It didn't matter how long or how deeply he'd been sleeping, how far apart they were on the mattress, or even if he'd fallen asleep in the chair in his office again. Somehow, he just knew.

He knew how to calm her even as her sobs made him shake. He knew what words to murmur softly to grab her focus, let her know that she wasn't there anymore, she was out, she was safe. He knew that she wouldn't fall asleep unless he was holding her, his body pressed against every inch of hers, proving he was solid and real.

Although it was he, and only he, that could chase the nightmares away, he felt utterly and completely useless.

Nothing stopped the nightmares. They always came, always ripped into her mind, forcing her to relive every detail, showing her again and again all the times she'd been afraid. All the times she'd been alone. All the times she'd begged/whispered/pleaded/prayed for him to find her. To take her away. To be there.

All the times he hadn't.

He hadn't been there for her.

He was here now, for all the good it was doing. Every night, every single night, she screamed. She cried. She clung to him, and he was unable to stop the terrors. Every night, he held her. He ran his hands through her hair. He pressed his lips against her forehead, her temple, her cheek. Her tears would dry, her eyes would slip closed, her grip on him would loosen, and eventually Belle would fall back asleep, still clutching him.

Richard never did.

He lay awake, watching the shadows passing over the walls, watching the moonbeams dancing across her face, feeling her breath fan across his collarbone, her eyelashes fluttering across his shoulder with every twitch of her eyelids. It wouldn't be until sunrise, when the dark began to fade from the room, the shadows creeping back into the corners, Belle catching those last few hours of rest, undisturbed by nightmares, that Richard would allow himself to slide into sleep.

He hadn't been there when she'd been alone and frightened, locked in a small, cold cell, but he was here now. He kept watch over her nights, a vigil to stand and guard against all things dark. Sunrise meant another victory, another night done, nothing more could harm her now. The light was bright and cheery, allowing nothing to be hidden, showing that nothing was waiting for him to sleep so they could attack her again.

With the sunlight streaming through open curtains and Belle tucked firmly against him, Richard was finally able to let his eyes shut, his muscles relax. Able to allow his mind to quiet, his worries fade, and he was finally, finally, able to sleep.

* * *

Eventually, it was brought up.

Belle had been back for two months, his house was spotless, he had gained back the weight he'd lost in her absence, and she was officially tired of being cooped up with him.

"I spent nearly seven months locked in a cell smaller than the bathroom in my apartment and now I'm trapped here." She folded her arms, regarding him with an anxious air. "I'm clearly not insane, even if everything out there frightens me a bit, but I have to get back out sometime."

Richard's first instinct was to say no immediately, to keep her behind locked doors, away from people who would hurt her, who would take her away again. If she wasn't with him, in his house at all times he wouldn't be able to protect her. She'd leave, and she'd be lost to him again.

But he couldn't deny freedom to her. Even if it meant she was going away from him, this time willingly. He didn't blame her. He'd figured this day would come. Belle couldn't be expected to be with him, old Mr. Gold, forever, and he was not about to- would not ever- keep her against her will. He told himself long ago that when this day came (because it would come, there was no doubt), he would let her go as gracefully as he could manage.

He would always be there for her, even if that meant only being her friend.

"If out there frightens you so much, why do you wish to leave?" he asked quietly.

"It's_ because _it frightens me that I want to go out." She narrowed her eyes at him, the bright blue suddenly piercing, because she always understood him. "And who said anything about leaving?"

Hope swamped him before he could stop it, his heart skipping a few beats as his mind caught up with hers (no matter how sharp he kept it, he would always be a few steps behind her).

Belle shook her head, a small smile gracing her lips as she kept her secrets. "I'm not leaving you, Richard," she promised him. "Not ever."

Although her words made his world infinitely brighter, he could not stop himself. "Don't make promises you might not want to keep later," he warned her, even as he came closer, stepped into her space, a hand raising because he wanted, _needed_ to feel her.

Belle covered his hand with hers, her free hand coming to rest over his on his cane, fingers twining together. She stepped closer, brushing her nose against his, smiling brightly. A true smile. A smile he'd missed so much.

"I will stay with you. Forever," she breathed, closing the remaining distance with a kiss, the past she knew, the past he was unaware of echoing between them.

She'd promised him forever in both lands, both times. Even here, where magic was a myth, the stuff of legends told to children, the promise rang true. No matter what obstacles cropped up, no matter the challenges presented before them, she would never stop fighting for them. Love was not easy, and that is what made it so strong. Love, when pure, when true, was the best weapon, the strongest in all the worlds.

"How can you love me so much?" he whispered against her skin, because he did not understand. She was bright and beautiful and pure, everything he wasn't and never could be.

"How can you love me?" she countered.

"Because you're Belle," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She smiled, glowing warmly, pressing a kiss to his jaw (for all this world's faults, it at least allowed her to kiss him). "And you're you. And I love you."

"I am the town monster," he reminded her.

"You're not a monster," she said immediately, firmly dismissing the notion, fierce in his defense, even against himself.

He was so lost, so confused, (because how, _how_ could she promise him forever with a smile, declare her love so readily, willingly bind herself forever to him) but he didn't, couldn't, let her go. He pulled her closer, burrowing into her hair, desperate to get closer, to have her surround him. She was his Belle, his wonderful, beautiful, brave Belle. And she loved him. He couldn't (wouldn't ever again) doubt that.

"I should bake some gingersnaps," Belle said suddenly.

Richard let out a bark of laughter, startled at abrupt conversation change. "And why is that?"

"Because you're about to call a lot of people over to tell them I'm here and we're going to need snacks."

She knew him so well and he smiled. "Ah, the most powerful of all magic," he said grandly. "Cookies."

"They come with a price," Belle warned him.

"Most things do." A kiss to her forehead was his payment. "That's why I'm very rich."

Belle gave a proper laugh, rising up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips. "Love is the most powerful magic of all," she corrected as she headed towards the kitchen. She threw a cheeky grin over her shoulder. "But my cookies are a close second."

He couldn't agree more. Love was more powerful than anything, the moral to every story, the heart of every fairytale. It was the most powerful of all. It was hard-fought, a struggle every step of the way, but when pure, true love was the most powerful magic of all.

The most powerful magic of all.

Powerful magic.

The _most powerful magic_ of all.

_"All..._

_"I will go with you. Forever."_

_"magic..._

_"What did you do, nail them down?"_

_"comes..."_

_"Love is layered. Love is a mystery to be uncovered."_

_"with..."_

_"Do the brave thing and bravery will follow."_

_"a..."_

_"You're not a monster."_

_"price."_

Eyes closed against the sudden pain in his head, he staggered into the living room, groping blindly for the couch so he could sit before he fell, suddenly dizzy, everything off balance and wrong. He gripped the end table, breathing hard, his mind whirling, spinning, and everything was coming fast, so fast, his awareness expanding, words he knew but had never spoken echoing in his mind.

"I don't know how many I can make, we don't have many egg- Richard? Richard, what- what is it?"

Belle's voice, there, so close, he could feel her touching him, her hands willingly on his arms, pulling him to her. She was here with him. Belle was here. Belle was _alive_.

Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes.

"_Belle_." And it was a gasp, barely a word at all, more like a prayer. She was here, willingly here, had promised to stay with him. This curse was supposed to take away all happy endings and yet here she was, standing before him.

"Are you alright?" she asked anxiously. "Sit down, you're pale-"

"I'm fine, dearie, I'm fine."

Belle stopped, a statue of a woman standing in the living room. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest heaving as she barely dared to hope.

"Rumplestiltskin?" she breathed, tears springing to her eyes.

"Yes." He gathered her back into his arms (how had he ever pushed her away?). "Yes, it's me, dearie. It's me." And he had to tell her, to say it now, and properly, say what he should have said then. "I love you," he said. "I was an idiot, a damn fool, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I love you."

"I forgive you," she said, and meant it, her blood singing with joy even as the tears fell. "I love you too."

"Even here?" he had to ask, pulling back so he could look at her. "You promise me forever, even in this land?"

"Forever is forever," she informed him. "And you and I both know how well curses fare against true love." There were tears mixed with her laughter, tears of joy, and she was in his arms and smiling at him, his Belle, _his_ Belle, the beloved of the Dark One, brave Belle who'd given up everything to protect her home.

His true love.

His own personal fairytale.

And fitting of every tale in every children's book, every movie that got it all wrong, Rumplestiltskin lowered his mouth to hers as she rose up to meet him. They met in the middle, the kiss proper and sweet, everything true love's kiss should be. There was no magic to lose here, no curse to melt away, and even if there was he would give it all up for her at once. Magic had already cost him everything. And now it was gone and half of what he'd lost was back.

Rumplestiltskin didn't need magic.

He needed his true love and the love of his son.

The rest of it (the magic, the world, the people who thought they knew him but they knew nothing) didn't matter. Not a single bit. He had Belle, and he had her love. And now, together, they would wait. The curse would break, the world would be open to them, and then he- then _they_ could find his son.

And then, when Bae was in his arms as well, then he would have everything he'd ever needed.

* * *

**A/N:** I am suffering from Once Upon A Time Withdraw. I'm starting to twitch. Thank you to everyone who favorites, reviews, and alerts this story. And an especially big thank you to Anti-Kryptonite, who lets me whine about writer's block and is the most fantastical beta to ever beta. And who also has some AMAZING Rumbelle stories that you all simply must read.

Well? What are you waiting for? Go read her stuff! 8D


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I had an emotionally draining day, so I thought I'd update early for you guys. Enjoy!

* * *

"I have a question," floated Belle's voice from behind the shower curtain, slightly louder than normal to be heard over the spray. "About the curse."

Rumplestiltskin leaned close to the mirror, tilting his face towards the light to better see the patch of skin his razor was aiming for. "Alright." He lifted the blade to his foam covered face, trying to assure himself he'd done this before. And he had. Well, Richard had. Rumplestiltskin hadn't needed to shave in a long time. "What," his voice sounded strange coming from lips and cheeks that knew they shouldn't move while something very sharp was very close, "is your question?"

Blue eyes watched his reflection, his clever fingers dragging a perfectly straight line through the white foam smeared along his cheek. He caught her gaze in the mirror, smiling at the sight of her, dripping water, hair plastered to her head, bubbles from her shampoo sliding down the strands. Still beautiful, his curious Belle, and unbothered by the fact that he could clearly see her silhouette outlined by the white shower curtain.

Rumplestiltskin quickly turned his gaze back to himself.

"If time doesn't exist here, why do you still need to shave?"

"Because I invented the curse," he told his reflection. "And I am very clever." Another pass with the blade, another strip of smooth skin exposed.

It was odd having skin like this again. It had been many centuries since he'd had to worry about things like wrinkles and shaving and spending too much time in the sun (he and Belle had ventured into the gardens of his fenced in backyard and stayed hours too long, her shoulders and his nose burnt red the next day). No scales, no odd discolorations, just smooth epidermis that sprouted hairs.

But it was nice, having to shave. He'd actually missed it.

Belle gave him a look, disappearing behind the curtain again.

"If you don't know the answer, just say so."

"Oh, I know the answer," he announced, deliberately adding a high pitched note to his voice which had Belle snorting with laughter. "I just don't know the question."

"You sound ridiculous," Belle announced, poking her head out again. "And I asked you a question."

"Not the right one," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at himself as he tilted his back further to get his neck while trying to keep everything visible. The last thing he needed to do was cut himself- the almighty Dark One, who didn't know how to shave.

"And what's wrong with my question?" she wanted to know, her elbow appearing as she put her hand on her hip.

He swished the razor in the water, tapping it twice on the sink to clear the moisture. "An all powerful curse," he reminded her. "_The_ curse, a curse to end all curses. One so powerful that I had to invent it... and you're asking about shaving." He looked ridiculous now, one half of his face and neck covered in shaving cream, the other half smooth and glistening with water. He gave a Rumplestiltskin-esque grin to the mirror and saw her smile.

"It's a legitimate question!" she protested, eyes locked on the blade tracing up his neck.

"How do you figure?"

He got another _look_. He'd been getting a lot of those lately.

"Hair needs time to grow. Time here is frozen. Ergo: shaving. Why?"

Rumplestiltskin paused, considered her logic. It was dangerously close to his own maniacal thinking and his grin was so wide it stretched his skin. "Oh, but I love you."

Belle rolled her eyes, pulling the curtain closed to hide her smile. "I love you too. Now answer my question."

He chuckled, making an odd face to get his chin. "Because people need to shave," he said, and she knew it would be a long, complicated explanation. He was fond of those. "Time is frozen here, yes, but only in a sense." He heard the soap fly out of her hand and muffled swearing as she tried to grab the slippery bar. "We're not aging, not physically, but our birthdays still come around because the weather still changes, and it does not snow in May."

"It would here," Belle muttered.

"It still rains, still snows. We have hot days, we have cold days. The Earth is still spinning, it just does not affect us. But even with all that magic piled into the curse, if you looked exactly the same every day, eventually someone would notice and question it. You're twenty three here, but you don't look even slightly older than you did in our land. So your hair grows, and you cut it. Your nails grow, and you trim them. We can gain weight or lose it." He ran a hand over the smooth half of his face. "And I still need to shave."

"The devil's in the details," came Belle's thoughtful voice.

A hard look in the mirror, the devil staring back. "Indeed."

"I can hear the thoughts going through your head and you can stop them right now." She couldn't see him through the curtain but turned to face him anyways. "So time is... on a loop?"

"Indeed it is. The children have summer break, going back to school when it's over, but they go back to the same grade. No one notices or asks- it's just time for school again. The children get different teachers each time, new classmates, new friends but the same material is taught. They have a birthday each year, but it's the same one. They do not age at all because children grow up very fast, but if they didn't have a birthday, they would notice because they're children. It's the details that convince everyone that time is progressing as it should."

It made sense, sort of. Belle remembered having birthdays, the celebrations different each year, and so everyone knew she was aging, but she didn't look any different. Time was recycling, changing each time so no one would realize that they were living the same year over and over again. Sometimes it would rain on her birthday, other times it was clear and sunny. She'd had a surprise party once. Variations on the theme, the time, the place, and so it was different, but it was still her birthday, celebrated with friends, and so it was the same.

"Did I ever celebrate the same age twice?" Belle asked, trying to remember each birthday.

"Oh yes. Probably several times over. If you hadn't, you'd be well into your thirties by now." He stopped to think. "I do believe you were frozen at eighteen until you came to work for me. Such a large change like that, the curse had to compensate, and so the town remembers you turning nineteen the next year rather than eighteen. The curse is to last twenty-eight years, but I highly doubt you'll be forty-six when the time rolls around." He tapped the razor twice, bringing the blade back to his cheek. "You'll most likely top out at thirty, if that. You're not aging physically, so you can only be so old before it becomes impossible to believe."

Her vanity could appreciate that. "And no one notices if I'm suddenly older than them?"

"Not at all. Once you surpass them in age, the curse simply tells them that you were always older.

It made sense that the curse would make everyone's ages different. She was fairly certain that Ruby was actually older than her in their land, but here she was barely twenty while Belle was approaching twenty four. Mary Margaret was a young school teacher, and so she was at least five years older than Belle, but in their land they had only been three years apart in age.

"And that's why I shave," Rumplestiltskin finished, running a hand towel over his freshly smooth skin to remove any excess foam.

"You could have just said you shaved because people would notice if no one ever had to."

"Yes," he agreed, facing the shower. "But you wouldn't have learned anything. You asked about shaving, and we ended at ages. A learning experience for you, and I managed not to cut myself." She couldn't see him, but spreading his hands for visual effect was natural, a gesture he hadn't known he missed. "Everybody wins."

Belle shook her head, turning off the water. "Hand me a towel?"

"So demanding," Rumplestiltskin teased, limping over to pass her one, only his hand coming around the damp curtain. "Answer my question, give me a towel." His hand went back to his side. "When did you become the master of the house?"

"The question was a question, not a demand." Towel wrapped firmly around her, the corner tucked so it wouldn't fall, Belle drew the curtain back, raising her brows when he immediately looked away. "And I can get my own towels," she sniffed, gripping the curtain rod to step over the tub lip and onto the floor.

Rumplestiltskin offered her a hand without looking, eyes on her feet as they both appeared on the mat. Her hand squeezed his, her soft giggle reaching his ears.

"You don't have to look away," she said, suddenly shy. "I'm covered." And even if she wasn't, she'd still let him look.

He looked up then, but kept his eyes on hers. Ever the gentleman, even when she stood naked except for a towel, hair leaving trails of water down her shoulders. He squeezed her hand hard, pressed a kiss to her forehead, very unsure of himself.

He remembered making love to her. He remembered the first time, remembered the worries and the fears and the pain that had come with that night. Physically, it had happened. Richard had slept with Isabelle, and so he had slept with Belle. She was a maiden no more, and he was to blame. In their land she would never be able to marry now if the knowledge became public unless he married her himself (a notion that was _very_ ideal). Yet here, she had been _encouraged_ to bed him, that union a celebration rather than a disgrace.

But now he was Rumplestiltskin, not Richard, and he was not even the powerful version of himself. He was once again a cripple, and still- and always- a coward. And that Rumplestiltskin had been raised to respect women and customs, and so had never bedded anyone until his first marriage. He and Belle shared a bed every night, clad in thin pajamas, arms and legs and skin all touching, but he couldn't bring himself to even try anything.

Even though Richard and Isabelle had, Rumplestiltskin and Belle had not, and this... tension between them was new (and yet it wasn't) to them both.

"Rumplestiltskin." Belle's hand on his face and he was glad, so glad, that Regina had lied and she was here. She was alive, that alone was wonderfully amazing, enough to fill him with joy. But she was also here with him, living with him, smiling at him, touching him.

He managed a smile. "Your hand's wet," he said, turning to kiss her palm.

They savored kisses. They kissed whenever they could- in the mornings, after breakfast, when he was being clever and she was being smart, at night. They kissed when they parted, when he came home, when they were happy, when they weren't. Sometimes they kissed for no reason other than to feel skin on their lips. Because they could here, and it cost them nothing. He kissed her now, tasting the moisture still on her lips, and he cherished it.

"They'll be here soon, love." He took her hand from his face, held it in his. "Best get ready."

Belle nodded, tongue darting out to draw her bottom lip in. "I know," she said on a sigh, eyes sad in a way that made his heart ache. "I just... I don't know how to tell them."

"Like most things hard to say, the easiest way to get it out is to just say it," he said gently, tugging on her hand to get her into his arms. "Unfortunately, what happens to us physically here _does_ happen, and so it is real." He touched the faded white scar by her hairline, the corner of his mouth lifting as he remembered another ladder, another tumble, a land and a time long gone. "It happened, love." No matter how much he wished it to be false, that memory rang true.

"And could again," she whispered into his chest, a small flicker of hope for her to latch on to, to focus on, a light in the darkness.

Rumplestiltskin smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair. "And could again."

If he had his way, it just might.

* * *

Many tears had been shed that day, and Rumplestiltskin had been entirely out of his element with three weeping females in his living room. He held Belle, an arm across her shoulders as she broke the news, the gentle pressure the only thing keeping her from breaking down entirely.

They'd told their (her, he didn't really have any) friends, Mary Margaret and Ruby were the first, then Archie- who would be needed as Dr Hopper for them both- and Doctor Whale was called, asked to make a home visit (they'd both immediately rejected going back to the hospital, even for a check up, the very thought nearly giving Belle a panic attack in the kitchen). Rumplestiltskin knew the good doctor would spread the word of seeing Belle, but that was part of the reason he'd been called.

Graham had come to see her (and she had to remind herself to answer to Izzy, but the hesitation was barely noticed), hugging her tightly, glad she was safe, her friend before he had to be Sheriff and ask them all question after question. He'd been quiet, listening intently as they spoke, never flinching, a calm voice and face for them to lean on. He did raise a brow at Mary Margaret admitting to stealing- as did Whale, who stated for the record that she could not be charged for that and he would make up a reason later- but otherwise remained unfazed.

(He punched his squad car hard when Belle had gone back inside and Rumplestiltskin was grateful he'd waited until he'd left to break.)

Moe was out of the hospital now, but Belle hadn't seen him. She wasn't sure she could face him, because he was her father and yet he wasn't (would the king have reacted differently to her falling in love with "this beast", or would he have shouted as Moe had?). She'd missed him, had thought about him often while in the Dark Castle, but she just couldn't go. She _wanted_ to see him, to see everyone, but she couldn't bring herself to go into town just yet.

But tomorrow she was going to try.

Telling everyone had helped, more than she thought it would.

Belle had told him what nightmare was repeating in her mind, what she relived every night, why she woke screaming, why she cried endless tears.

And he'd wept.

He'd wept bitterly, years of pent up tears escaping in a single night, his body shaking with all the sobs he'd never released, cursing Regina, cursing the curse, cursing himself most of all. He shattered around himself, the tears leaking through the cracks and they would not stop, not even with her in his arms.

It had been the catalyst, the final straw that broke his back, and not even anger could stop the howling of his heart as it first raged, then mourned, and he'd never been more broken. The beast caged within him did not growl or claw at its prison. It fell to its knees, despair too heavy upon its shoulders.

The monster turned its face to the sky, crying out _'Why'_ but no one answered because there was no one to give it the answer it already knew.

This was his punishment, his unhappily ever after. The final price to pay for this magic. Even gone, magic took everything from him, even what he hadn't known he had, what he didn't know he'd wanted until it was already long gone.

Belle in his arms, alive, loving him, and it should have been enough, but it was an illusion because pieces were missing.

His son was not here, the child from another woman that Belle already loved because Bae was a part of him and she loved him whole, even the cracked bits. Without Baelfire the picture was not complete, his happily ever after only half finished, but even with him the brush would still lay to the side, the artist walking away from a masterpiece because the colors weren't quite right.

He wanted- needed- his son. It was why he'd done all he'd done, why he'd created the curse, why he'd sold it to Regina, why he'd made her into the Regina she was now. Bae was worth all the years, all the waiting. Bae was his son, and Rumplestiltskin loved him, and wanted him back, wanted to tell him how sorry he was.

"I think the curse was drawing parallels to our world, and that's why we woke up. When something different happened, something that never happened to us there, the curse couldn't compensate for it," she said that night, watching her fingers drum an idle tune on his chest.

Rumplestiltskin spared a moment to marvel at her wonderful mind. "Oh?" he said, voice breaking because he knew exactly what difference had woken her.

"I..." She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening into a fist, bunching his shirt in her grip. She was never going to be okay again if she didn't talk about it. "I was never pregnant there." They were both quiet, heartbeats loud in the silence. "When it happened here, the curse drew a blank, and my mind, the part of me that's Belle, stepped in to fill it."

Rumplestiltskin brought his other arm to her waist so he could hold her properly. He didn't trust his voice, he was already shaking as it was, and so kissed her forehead, squeezing his eyes shut to spare her the pain reflected in them.

He was just a father who wanted his son back.

And he was also a man who wanted- needed as well but could never have because it had been taken from him, from them both- the child with Belle that had been lost before they'd known about its existence.

He'd lost two children now, and only one would be able to be found, to be brought back.

"You came back," he said, a thousand things running through his mind but he said this instead. "In our land you came back, but here I was not foolish enough to push you away. You stayed, promised you'd never leave."

"I promised forever then too," she reminded him, her fist slowly uncurling.

"I believed you here."

Without the Dark One to whisper doubts on top of his own, Belle's words had reached him, sunken in, and he'd been able to banish his disbelief, focus on the impossible hope instead. He'd had faith in her, and in himself, for one needed faith in oneself in order to accept love, and it had woken him.

"Whale said that whatever they were giving me caused the... the miscarriage." Belle let her gaze travel out the window, the moon grinning brightly at her. "That must be why they stopped drugging me."

"We need to find out how you were drugged in the first place," Rumplestiltskin said to stop himself from promising murder.

"Yes we do. But later," Belle said, snuggling close, banishing the sad thoughts, determined not to cry any more today. "Sleep now, Rumplestiltskin. Tomorrow is a new day, and I intend to spend it with as much happiness as possible."

"I'd better stay home then," he quipped, grinning when Belle lightly slapped his chest.

Belle wouldn't want vengeance, and, much to his surprise, he didn't need it. They needed each other to get through this (because they would not get past it, they would merely be able to let it lie in the past). He wanted Regina dead for taking what could have been, but he wasn't going to kill her.

He could do much worse things to her.

_"... every time I say please."_

He could make her regret that deal.

There was law here, law Richard had studied and knew well. It was why Regina had sought him out for her favor, which had fallen by the wayside. He had not worked on it since Belle had gone. He did not want to because Belle was back. He especially was not going to because he was not going to give Regina what she had taken from them.

Rumplestiltskin was not going to give the Evil Queen- who'd locked his true love away twice, lied with a smile but was needed to find his son- a child. She did not deserve that love. So he would not give it to her.

He didn't deserve it either, and so it had been taken from him, but Belle deserved it, she deserved everything she wanted, so surely that counted. She could have a child of her own, even if the child was his too. And Rumplestiltskin wanted very much to give Belle that happy ending, wanted to see her swell with life, glowing and happy as their child grew within her.

Things were different in this world, and Rumplestiltskin had thought he would hate it. He'd come to rely on magic like a crutch, his intentions so twisted out of shape he wasn't even able to see where he'd started until the magic had been taken from him. But here he could kiss Belle, here he could love her. Here there was a question he could ask in order to promise her forever as well.

Here his family- his true love and his son- would be safe, away from the clutches of magic and those who used it for the wrong reasons (safe from himself, because he knew now that he was part of the danger as well).

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she whispered.

And for now, that was all that mattered.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** That Rumbelle clip from The Miller's Daughter. I just... I can't. I can't. I watched it three times and I cried (big boo hoo sobbing tears) each time. Naturally I posted it on Tumblr for others to cry to as well. And then I just needed fluff, so new chapter. And don't worry about Henry guys. It's all going to be taken care of ;)

* * *

She clutched his arm, plastered to his side as she glanced around nervously.

"Everyone's staring at me."

And they were. Belle and Rumplestiltskin- Mr. Gold, Richard, if she didn't call him that in her head she would say it out loud- were strolling through the streets, hand in hand on their way to the diner, and they could both feel every eye on them. The mailman turned to watch them as they passed, colliding with a light pole when he didn't watch where he was going, the letters in his hand fluttering to the ground, some snatched by the wind, carted off to parts unknown.

Richard snickered. "Serves him right," he muttered darkly. Belle didn't deserve to be stared at like this. They turned heads no matter where they went; Mr. Gold had never even pretended to be interested in anyone and so walking anywhere with Belle made for an interesting experience, but now people were staring at her like they expected her to run screaming in to the street, tearing her clothes off as she went.

The legal red tape had melted under his experience, Doctors Whale and Hopper both standing to side with Belle. With him citing laws and them citing tests that were never given (and they would know because they were the only two qualified to give them), Belle was officially free, her medical record wiped. The false documents were proven as lies, the pipes in her apartment had been laced with the drug she'd been slipped (every shower, every drink of water, every time she brushed her teeth, the drug got into her system and they never knew), and so the files were thrown out, never to be seen again.

Regina had made a token appearance at the hearing, cooing over Belle as if she'd been worried, demanding that justice be done. It had taken everything in him to not crack open her skull with his cane just to see what evil would pour from the wound (because he was Rumplestiltskin and he remembered, but Belle was here now and she was not going to be taken from him again).

Her hand squeezed his. "Be nice," she muttered.

Rumplestiltskin smirked down at her. "No chance," he whispered, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

Ruby spied them through the window and threw the door open with a wide grin. "Izzy!" she squealed, running up to the pair.

Belle's smile was wide enough to pass to him and she ran to meet her friend, both throwing their arms around the other, laughing and squealing like it was any other day.

"Oh my god, you won't believe what happened yesterday," Ruby said, looping her arm through Belle's and pulling her along. "Leroy got drunk again and drove to town to get more booze right? Walked into the store like nothing was out of the ordinary... except he totally wasn't wearing pants." She held the door open with her foot so Richard could squeeze in behind them. "Graham had to arrest him in his underwear. Funniest freaking thing ever, and I have pictures."

Belle burst out laughing, and the rest of the tension in his shoulders melted.

She'd been right about getting out. Outside fit his Belle like a glove, her friend laughing and chatting with her, acting as if it was all perfectly normal, nothing was wrong, pretending no one was staring at them even now. Rumplestiltskin turned a steady gaze to the dirty men in the booth in the corner, wishing, just for a minute, that he was the Dark One again, just so they would leave Belle be.

Her hand snagged his, pulled him down to sit beside her. "Leave them alone," she said quietly. "People are going to stare no matter what and if you make a scene you'll just make it worse."

"They just don't know what to make of two absolutely gorgeous brunettes standing mere feet from them," Ruby announced loudly, barely glancing up from her phone. "When faced with such beauty, most men lose any and all hope of acting like human beings because they start to think with the downstairs brain." She looked up then, squarely meeting the gaze of the men. "And judging by the looks of those two, that brain isn't very big."

"_Ruby_," Belle gasped, horrified. "Oh my god."

Ruby shrugged, held up her phone. "Smile," she called. "I want a picture for my wall of shame."

The men sneered and said something crude, which Ruby countered within half a second, snapping a picture. "You guys want breakfast? Granny just made some pancakes." She turned her phone so they could see the picture. "What do you think, Storybrooke's dumbest patrons?"

Belle groaned, hiding her face in his shoulder, and Rumplestiltskin decided he absolutely loved werewolves.

* * *

Cold wetness exploded on the back of his neck. Growling, Rumplestiltskin, all mighty Dark One, the most powerful being in all the worlds, crouched, waiting for his prey to stumble into his elaborate trap. He was not one to be defeated so easily. It took insanely sharp wit, years of planning, and no small amount of magic to even begin to try and out do him in anything-

- but Belle pelting him with snowballs was almost enough to make him admit defeat.

"Ha!" He turned to the sound, arm extended backwards, snowball in hand, but he only caught sight of her curls diving behind a tree, the tail end of her coat disappearing behind the bark. He could hear her laughing, the giggles muffled but still audible, and he snuck around the other side, springing forward as best he could, ready to let loose a volley of snow.

A rabbit sniffed at his shoe curiously, then scampered away, deciding he was of no interest.

Another giggle reached his ears and he paused, wondering if this world truly had no magic, because surely Belle wasn't beating him- he was _Rumplestiltskin_, the absolute master of childish shenanigans- in a snowball fight. Not without cheating.

"Laughing at me, dearie?"

"Not at all," her voice assured him. "I'm just wondering where I'll hit you next."

He thought he heard her move and turned, but the trees stared silently back at him, revealing nothing. This was not fair. Belle was wearing a bright yellow coat and navy colored jeans in the middle of the park. Snow covered the ground, the trees were narrow, and even against the dark backdrop of the forest he could not see her. At the sound of another wicked giggle he whirled, and if Rumplestiltskin wasn't careful he'd get dizzy.

"You're cheating," he accused, peering around a tree. Something yellow vanished in the distance and he crept forward.

"I would never!" came her affronted reply. "Cheating is _your_ area of expertise."

"Taking advantage of a loophole isn't cheating, it's business." Damn, she wasn't ahead of him at all, now it sounded as if she were behind him. There had to be magic at play here, and it wasn't his own.

"You sound like a lawyer."

"I _am_ a lawyer," he reminded her, turning to face where he thought she was, and then it was too late.

Belle burst into laughter when her latest projectile hit him directly on the forehead, the snow exploding around him in a puff of white. He wiped at the powder on his face with a scowl, but the corners of his lips were lifted, his eyes wide and amused. He was having just as much fun as she was, even if he was losing spectacularly.

Safe behind the wide trunk of a sturdy tree, Belle hurried to roll more snow into her hands. Her mittens had long since been abandoned, the wool becoming wet and useless. She needed her fingers to scoop the snow, shape it correctly if she was to continue to stay ahead. The sound of footsteps made her tense, scooting around to the other side to stay out of sight.

"Give up yet?" she teased.

"Never," murmured a voice in her ear, and she turned, already aiming, but then he was upon her, empty hands to be filled with her, lips sealing over hers, and everything was suddenly very warm and bright, the moisture from her clothes evaporating in a hiss of steam as he held her, hands and fingers spread to touch as much of her as possible.

Belle wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, feeling safe and warm, sure she would see all the snow within a three foot radius melted into slush around them. She smiled against his lips, feeling his mouth echo the motion.

She smashed the snowball into his hair.

"Oh, _now_ you're in for it," he promised, using his cane to scoop the top layer of cold and fling it at her.

She retreated with a shriek, trying to gather snow and avoid it at the same time. "Cheater!" she cried, hurling half formed snowballs at him, which he dodged or batted away. "No tools!"

"When was that decided?" he wanted to know, his cane a very effective bat against the snow, allowing him to advance towards her. She was defenseless now, and he dropped his cane to grab her wrists, pinning them to the rough bark behind her.

"Just now," she said breathlessly, trying not to smile and failing miserably. "No tools allowed in snowball tomfoolery."

"But it's such fun." He brushed his nose with hers, letting her feel his breath across her lips before touching them with his. She melted against him, one hand twisting free to grab his collar, pulling him down further, closer to her level.

The snow fell softly around them, the dark cloth of his coat and the bright colors of hers a brilliant contrast to the white blanket around them, the gray tone of the sky paling even more around them, no match for the light they gave to the world surrounding them. They were completely lost in each other, unaware of the perfect picture they made until Mary Margaret gave them a framed copy.

* * *

Archie smiled as the recounted the tale, taking in her own smile, her relaxed posture, the sparkle in her eyes. Isabelle and Gold had come to him after she'd been released, the loss of a child weighing heavily on them both, but to see them now, five months later... Archie could barely tell there had been any sadness in her at all.

But it was still there. She still mourned, they both (they all) did, but she smiled easier now, her laughter light and free.

"...was walking by and snapped a picture. We have it sitting on the mantle at home," Isabelle finished.

Archie waited, smiling softly, and Belle caved.

"I... I cried when we got home," she admitted quietly, picking absently at the lint on her skirt. "We had so much fun all day, but then at dinner, it just hit me all at once." She shook her head, curls bouncing. "I felt guilty, like I wasn't allowed to have fun so soon after everything. And then I got angry that I felt that way, then frustrated that I couldn't stop, and I just had a meltdown in the middle of the kitchen."

She stared at the fireplace, not quite meeting his eye. The day had been perfect, lunch at the diner, silliness in the park, several deep kisses that spoke of the love, the desire they had for each other, and then she'd ruined it with tears. Rumplestiltskin had held her, steady and calm throughout the storm, and she'd never felt so weak.

Everything was so difficult now.

Belle remembered, her memories no longer affected by the curse, and that was hard enough. She had to look Mary Margaret in the eye and not call her Snow, had to watch Ruby throw herself at men who didn't deserve her because of a pain the woman didn't truly understand. Everyone in town was suffering quietly, most unaware that they weren't happy, but Belle knew, and she saw it every day. That moment, the split second where the curse couldn't cover the sadness in their eyes, the brief instant where the cursed world and the real world collided.

But then the moment was over.

And everything was the same again.

Belle put a hand to her stomach (it was empty and barren where there had once been life and growth), fingers fisted in the fabric of her shirt, feeling hollow.

"It's perfectly normal to have a wide range of emotions after a trauma," Archie was saying. "Being happy is a good thing. You just have to get used to it again, and until you do, you will feel guilt at the joy." He passed her a tissue, waiting until she'd wiped the stray tears before broaching the subject Gold had warned him would be painful. "Have you seen your father?"

Her wince was answer enough, and Archie's heart broke for her. Though Gold and Isabelle often had joint sessions, he never told the other what was said when they were alone. Gold had come to him to vent (and fret, and worry, and work through the guilt) about Moe French's less than stellar reaction to his daughter's homecoming.

"He wanted me to choose," Isabelle whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "He said that being with Richard was too dangerous, that I couldn't be with him anymore." Lips pressed together to hold in the sob, Isabelle lifted her watery gaze to his. "He said if I stayed with Richard... then I wasn't his daughter anymore."

Belle knew it was the curse twisting her father into this state. Her father loved her with everything he was, had raised her in a kind and loving home. Moe French wasn't quite King Maurice, but she loved him all the same, and the cruel words were a knife to her already bleeding heart.

"We haven't spoken since."

"And Richard?" Archie prompted, even though he knew.

Isabelle's shoulders jerked, almost as if she was holding in a laugh but her tears still fell. "He thought I should be with my father," she said, quiet agony in her words. "He said he didn't want to come between us any more than he already had."

Rumplestiltskin had let her go once, and was willing to again. It had been a mistake on both their parts, him for pushing her away and hers for going, and then he tried to repeat it. His intentions had been good, and she could see the heartbreak in his eyes as he spoke, but Belle had refused (and very nearly smacked him for trying to break her heart again).

"I said forever," she'd reminded him, and for some reason he looked as though she'd broken his heart all over again, but he'd held her, shaking under her hands.

"Forever," he'd whispered, gasping for breath as he fought the tears.

Belle knew he'd been hurt before. Milah, his wife, the first woman he'd promised forever to, asking why he didn't just die, never again holding love for him after he'd returned from war, abandoning their child just because the option had been open. Their marriage was cold for years. Her shame of him, the cruelty of his own wife mixed with the cruel words from the village, his old friends, circling in his head until he believed them.

_Because no one, no one, could ever, __**ever**__ love me._

But she did.

Belle loved him, absolutely and unconditionally. She loved his past, the stories of who he'd been. She loved his present, who he was now and who he was becoming. She loved his future, whether it be as Richard or Rumplestiltskin. He told her of all his evil ways, always looking as though he expected her to run from him, but Belle understood that he was just a man, and men made mistakes. Some of the mistakes were very bad, but that did not make him a bad man.

He was trying to right them, trying so hard to fix what he'd broken, and that is why Belle loved him.

People who make mistakes are not bad people. It is the people who are unwilling to do anything that need to be avoided. Rumplestiltskin faced his mistakes head on, accepted the shame that came with the mistake, worked past it, and moved towards the future, whatever it may be. He was endeavoring, he was enduring, and he was not, under any circumstances, going to give up. And that is why Belle loved him.

He expected people to give up on him, but she never did, and so he was not going to give up on himself. And that is why Belle loved him.

"He wants what's best for you."

(And that is why she loved him.)

"Unfortunately, he doesn't think _he's_ what's best for me."

Archie chuckled. "No, he doesn't," he agreed. "But he is starting to believe that you aren't going anywhere." (And that is why she loved him even more.) Professionalism and friendship blurred together, the lines fading until they weren't there at all. "He loves you. Very much."

At that, she smiled. "I know."

It was one thing, the only thing, in all the worlds that she would never doubt.

"It is difficult," Archie continued, "to balance the love you have for each other and the grief over your child. But you draw strength from him, and him from you. Lean on each other, don't pull away, and the days will be better for it."

She did laugh then, the last of her tears drying. "Trust me, Doctor Hopper," she said, her voice clear and firm, a truth repeated so often it couldn't be doubted. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

The frantic knocking on the door proved to be Ruby, and Belle could only stare at her friend, standing in the sunlight like a normal person, in shock.

"What," she asked, her voice still groggy because it was early even for her, "are you doing up so early?"

"Is it early? I haven't been to bed yet."

"It's seven in the morning!"

Ruby paused, glanced up at the sun, still rising, as if she hadn't realized it was there. "Oh. Oops." She shook her head, pushing something into Belle's hand. "That's not why I'm here. Look! Look at what he did!"

Belle grabbed at the paper, stumbling backwards as Ruby pushed her so she could come in. Managing not to trip over Rumplestiltskin's shoes (that man never left them anywhere other than right by the door where she could trip over them), Belle smoothed the paper out. "What who did?"

"Your boyfriend!" Ruby exclaimed, dancing on her toes. "He paid my hospital bill and he gave me the diner!" She jumped up and down excitedly, mouth open in a wide smile that showed all her teeth (a wolfish grin that suited her all too well). "I own it! Me! And I know we owed like eight thousand dollars on it still, but it says right there that it's mine!" She threw her head back and laughed.

Belle's heart melted. Oh, that wonderful man. He still owned the inn, but the debt on the diner had been forgiven, Ruby's hospital bills (even the ones owed from before her fainting spell) had all been paid off. Widow Lucas's bills had been paid as well, until the only thing they would be paying Mr. Gold for would be the inn, which they only owed a few more years on.

Ruby snatched the deed back. "Go kiss that man so I don't have to," she ordered, pushing Belle towards the stairs. "I have to celebrate."

"You," Belle said, clutching the railing so she wouldn't slip against the hardwood, her socks had no traction on this floor, "need to sleep."

Ruby waved the suggestion away. "Sleep is for the weak. Go have thank you sex."

"_Ruby!"_

"Remember: pounce, grab, and pin." She winked. "Have fun!"

Belle stared at the spot Ruby had occupied moments before, shaking her head. But a smile conquered her face, and she took the steps two at a time, her socks slipping on the slick wood. She skidded to a stop at their bedroom door, pausing to watch him sleep.

He was on his stomach, head turned away from the sun, mouth open as he snored slightly. They'd both gotten a full night's sleep, her nightmares short and forgotten when she opened her eyes, their slumber for once undisturbed and peaceful. He slept in plaid flannel pants and a plain white shirt, as underdressed as he ever got, and she absolutely loved him.

So she pounced on him, straddling his back and bouncing until he groaned.

"It's Sunday," he protested, covering his head with the pillow. "Sunday means sleeping in." His voice was muffled, the pillow held firmly to protect him from the morning as well as the morning person he lived with. "You should try it some time."

Belle leaned down, pressing a kiss to his neck, the only skin visible to her as he tried to burrow under the blankets. "You should get up," she said, lips tracing his ear.

"And why is that?"

"Because Ruby just came by and told me what you did, and if I don't kiss you senseless for it in the next ten seconds my heart just might explode."

She kissed his jaw, squeaking, then laughing, as he rolled over, grabbing her by the waist to flip them. He loomed over her, resting his weight comfortably against her, warming her down to her toes. She didn't give him the chance to speak, grabbing his collar and using it to yank him down, enabling her to kiss him properly.

And then not so properly.

Rumplestiltskin pulled back, eyes glazed, and she knew that look, knew what it meant, her heart pounding because they still hadn't. Rumplestiltskin had very much been holding back, they both had, but she remembered that look, and he wasn't holding back now. Now he was holding her, fingers slowly popping the buttons on her pajama top. He kissed her again, lips lingering on her forehead, suddenly slow and sweet, fingers pausing in their quest.

"Would this be a good time to tell you about Mary Margaret living rent free for the rest of her life?"

She yanked on his collar again, this time pulling his shirt right off, grabbing his shoulders and rolling them with a laugh.

Pounce, grab, and pin.

Works every time.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** The last chapter! Man was this fun to write! :D I'm so eternally grateful to those who read, reviewed, favorited, and/or stalked this story. You guys make it all worthwhile :3 **BIG SUPER MEGA THANK YOU TO MY BETA ANTI-KRYPTONITE**! You are AWESOME AND I HEART YOU. And guys, something tells me I'm not done with this universe yet. This story, yes, but these characters? Oh hell no. Not saying there will be a sequel any time soon, but I'm not saying there won't ever be... ;)

* * *

He wasn't used to having to ask for help. In the Enchanted Forest he had been the Dark One, and he never wanted for anything, his help being the magic at his fingertips. Magic kept whatever he needed, and several things he wanted, a mere snap of his fingers away. Whatever he couldn't obtain through magic, he got through deals. Sometimes the deals were good, sometimes they weren't, but he learned something with each transaction.

In Storybrooke he was Mr. Gold, and money spoke volumes. Money could buy anything. It could turn a no into a yes. It could put him at the top of any list. Regina had given him what he'd asked for, that deal paying off handsomely. His money bought him comfort, everything he needed, and he never ran out of money. He couldn't spin straw into gold anymore, but the piles he'd had laying around the castle seemed to have transferred into his bank accounts in Storybrooke.

No, he would never have to worry about something as trivial as money again.

And yet there were things money couldn't buy, comforts he only knew because of Belle.

Belle could not be bought. He'd bargained for her, a deal made (his most profitable deal, the deal to top all deals) in order to have her as his, but she hadn't truly been his until he'd let her go. Falling in love with Belle was not something he'd foreseen, and even if he had he wouldn't have been able to prepare for it. One thing Rumplestiltskin knew was that love came quietly, without warning. There were no fireworks, no bells or whistles. Love presented itself when it was ready.

It found you, no matter who or where you were.

And it had found him.

She'd promised him forever, and then she'd promised him forever again. Even telling her everything- his darkest moments (letting Bae go, Milah's heart in his hand), every time he'd run- could not make her let go of that promise. Belle loved him entirely, in a way he'd never thought possible.

It was time he promised her forever too, in whatever way he could.

Mary Margaret and Ruby had agreed to his request quickly, excited, tripping over each other with ideas. Graham had smiled and offered his services, appearing with Archie the next day. Leroy was trading labor for debt forgiveness, but he'd agreed rather quickly as well, rounding up a few more workers with a suspiciously bright glint in his eye. Somehow they all managed to keep the secret, working nights when no one was watching, deliberately not talking about the project unless the subject was brought up by him.

It was odd, having so many people eager to help him. And really they were helping Belle, a fact which he pointed out when Mary Margaret brought it up.

"No, don't you see?" Her hands on his shoulders, making him turn to face the crew he'd assembled. "All these people? Every one of them came because you asked them to. Look at them, Gold. They're not here out of fear for you, or because they owe you money. They're here because you asked them to be."

"Leroy owes me money," he reminded her, feeling the need to point that out.

"But I don't," she said. "Ruby doesn't. Graham doesn't, and as far as I know Archie's never even borrowed money from you." She smiled, nodding at Graham, holding the ladder steady for Archie. "We're all here without incentive."

"You're here because of Belle." But his voice lacked the bite, wonder leaking through instead.

"And so are you."

So were they all. Belle was light, touching everyone around her, bathing them in a warm glow that left them smiling, waiting for more. Everyone who met her loved her, and everyone here would do anything for her. She'd even given some of her love to him, the biggest piece of her heart, trading it for his. It hadn't been an even trade, but the deal had been struck, and he was better because of it.

"You're doing this, all of it, for Belle, but it's still you." Mary Margaret gestured around them, the large space slowly gaining life and color. "This is all you. We're just helping you out. Which is what friends do."

Rumplestiltskin could only stare. She truly was a queen, her heart kind and pure. Mary Margaret didn't remember the deals she'd made with Rumplestiltskin (most of which she probably wouldn't appreciate once she did remember), but she remembered Mr. Gold, the money owed, the items she'd sold or pawned, his cold sneer. But Belle was her friend, and Belle loved him, and so she was here, helping him, willing to lend a smile, trying to get him to see what he seemed to have missed.

Graham leaned against the wall, studying the transformation happening around them. "Not bad," he said, taking a long drink of water. "I'll have to patch up that spot on the roof, otherwise it'll leak. I can paint while I'm up there too, get that done." He tilted his head, eyes narrowed as he tried to picture the finished product. "Any preferences to color? That beige is kind of depressing."

Rumplestiltskin glanced up, unsure. Part of the surprise was keeping it secret, so Belle couldn't know, but now that they were working on the finishing touches, he realized that she actually needed to be here, her input needed to make this work. He wanted her to love every bit of this, and so every single inch had to be perfect.

And yeah, the beige was a little dreary.

Graham straightened suddenly. "You know what, I've got some blue at home I never used. I bet it would really brighten up the place."

Unbidden, the picture of Belle in her blue dress rose to his mind, and he smiled. "Blue," he said. "Yes. Bright and cheery." She'd had more than enough darkness in her lifetime, and he was going to bring as much color to her as he could.

A friendly hand clapped him on the shoulder, the sheriff's wide grin greeting him when he turned. "She's going to love this, Gold."

Words escaped his mouth before he could stop them, but once they were out he didn't regret them. "It's Richard."

"What?"

"My name," Rumplestiltskin said. "Might as well use it."

Graham blinked, his startle reflex, but recovered quickly. "Alright then, Richard. I'll just go get that paint."

The sheriff departed as Gold made his way over to Archie, struggling to assemble a shelf, staring at the directions as if they were written in Greek.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

"Yes, actually," the cricket chirped. "This is... not going well."

No snide remark came to his lips, no cruel words to mock the other man, just a faint sense of amusement spurred by the lost look on Archie's face. Together they took in the sheer amount of screws, nails, dowels, and other odds and ends that were all supposed to make up a simple shelf.

Rumplestiltskin picked up the instructions, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of them. Surely this tiny shelf didn't have _that_ many parts.

Okay, maybe it did.

"Well," he said after a moment, "at least we know it'll be sturdy."

Archie chuckled, holding up a wooden plank. "If we put it together correctly."

Richard hummed thoughtfully. He pointed at an odd looking metal piece by Hopper's foot. "That one goes with that piece," he said, watching Archie fit the metal and wood together flawlessly. They shared a brief moment of triumph before tackling the rest.

"Very nice, Doctor Hopper," Rumplestiltskin said, standing back to admire the finished product. It stood proudly, straight and tall.

"Archie," the other man said easily. "Save Doctor Hopper for Wednesdays."

The corner of his mouth twitched, and a hand was offered, as if they were being introduced for the first time. "Richard," he said just as easily, the name slipping off his tongue as if he'd been saying it his entire life.

Archie smiled, taking the offered hand, shaking it once. "We have three more shelves," he said, eyeing the wood scattered around them. Behind them, something hit the floor, Ruby swearing and scrambling to grab the screws before they vanished into oblivion.

"Best get to it then."

Rumplestiltskin didn't have any friends. He had acquaintances, people he tolerated, all afraid of him, not one person he would consider asking for help. Friends were a foreign concept to the Dark One, unneeded, unwanted, and so he had none. But Richard Gold... well, he just might.

* * *

He came home covered in three different colors of paint, and Belle laughed at him.

"What on earth have you been doing?" she asked, passing him a towel to wrap his shoes in (he'd stepped in the primer at some point, leaving trails of white wherever he walked).

"Oh, this and that," he said, looping an arm around her waist.

She squirmed and shrieked, his hands leaving multicolored streaks in their wake, brown on her arms, white on her hands, prompting him to run his thumbs across her cheek, just to see if the blue really did match her eyes.

"You look lovely with a bit of color," he announced, rubbing his stained cheek against her neck.

"You're horrible," Belle laughed, trying to push him off. "I was supposed to meet Mary Margaret for dinner and now look at me."

He did, eyes raking over her from the top of her head, white paint in the brown, to her feet, one long streak of blue on her calf where it had brushed his. "Beautiful," he said, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

"Flattery is not going to get you anywhere," she muttered, trying to sound cross. She swatted at his arm. "Let go, you. Now I have to change."

_Or you could stay in, away from the world_, he wanted to say, but didn't. She deserved a night out with friends, a night without him to look over their shoulders. Regina wouldn't bother her (a simple please had ensured she would only approach him, not her). Even if the queen tried, Graham was patrolling tonight. He'd keep an eye on Belle, no bribery or threats needed.

Rumplestiltskin trusted Graham. Not with his life, because his life didn't matter, but he could trust him with Belle's. The Huntsman protected those he cared about, no matter the cost to himself (a year spent in Regina's castle, his heart held captive in place of the one he refused to give). That was the kind of person he didn't mind having look after Belle.

That was the kind of person Rumplestiltskin didn't mind calling an ally.

That was the kind of person Richard didn't mind, one day, calling a friend.

* * *

Belle found him in his office, head resting on folded hands, something grim and resolute in the air. Her smile faded, but she refused to let it slip entirely.

"Rumplestiltskin?"

He didn't look at her, sitting so straight and still he might have been a statue carved out of marble or stone. When he spoke his voice was soft, but there was something sharp in his eyes, his knuckles bleaching white with his grip on himself.

"Regina asked me to find her a child," he said without preamble. "I said yes at first, but then after..." He paused, not needing or wanting to finish the thought. "I wasn't going to. I was going to refuse her."

"And... and something changed?" Belle hazarded, unsure of how to feel. He was seething quietly, very much the Rumplestiltskin of legend (stealing babes in the night, trading names and favors, not someone to be crossed), but he was not angry, or weary, but somehow a mix of both; a tired man and a burned out sorcerer without his magic.

Brown eyes flickered to hers, and then there was sorrow mixed in with the anger.

"The Savior had a child."

The air escaped Belle's lungs in a whoosh. "You found her?" she gasped, the words barely formed in her shock but he heard them. She managed a breath. "And she's a mother?"

Rumplestiltskin's eyes slid closed. "Not... quite," he said. "It would seem she's had a hard life. She gave birth in a minimum security prison at the age of eighteen, just two weeks ago."

Belle sank heavily into the chair beside his. The curse had been active for eighteen years? They had been in Storybrooke, out of their land, away from their home, hidden away from the rest of the world, for _eighteen years_. Double her lifetime. Eighteen years spent in the Enchanted Forest, eighteen years in Maine.

Belle felt very young.

She felt very, very old.

She was not eighteen anymore, older now at twenty-three (she seemed to have skipped another birthday, celebrated her twenty-third year twice), but the age felt false. And it was, she was so much older, but she did not feel thirty-six either. Time passing and frozen all at once and Belle was at the same time a young girl and a grown woman.

The Savior, Emma, was eighteen. She was Mary Margaret's- Snow White's- daughter. And she had a child of her own now.

"She put the boy up for adoption," Rumplestiltskin said quietly, his lips moving against his tightly folded hands. "The agency contacted me and asked if my client would take him."

The silence that fell was heavy.

"You're going to give him to Regina?" Belle asked with numb lips, already knowing the answer.

Rumplestiltskin lowered his head to rest it on his hands, limbs shaking with what could have been either anger or sorrow or both. "I have to, love."

All that planning, the hundreds of years of hard work, manipulation and secrets, and they'd very nearly stumbled at the finish line. He'd made the curse, made sure there was a way to break it, but the Savior had gone through the portal alone. She would have been raised in this world believing the tales of children's books to be nothing more than stories. She wouldn't be prepared to break the curse. She wouldn't know the first thing about her past.

The Savior couldn't save them if he didn't give her the correct push.

Regina wanted a child. He didn't know why. He didn't want to know. But she would have this child, and him specifically, because one day, ten years from now, it would be the only thing to bring the Savior- Emma- to where she needed to be.

And Belle still would not have a child.

They were careful now. The curse had taken a child from them because they would have been happy, would have loved the child with every fiber of their hearts. So it was snatched away, the curse doing what it was designed to do. If Belle were to fall pregnant again... even if they were to adopt the curse could still...

They couldn't lose another child.

The medicine in this world was far more advanced, and Belle had obtained pills to prevent a pregnancy from happening. Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure how she had fallen pregnant in the first place, time being frozen and all (Ella/Ashley was still heavy with her own child despite all the years everyone was sure were passing), but the curse was creative in its horror. No more happy endings, specific and broad all at once.

He had Belle, but until the curse was broken, that was all he would ever have. It was more than he deserved, more than he'd ever hoped for, but it wasn't his happy ending, not yet. Not without Bae (and maybe, once the curse was broken, a child with Belle's eyes and his nose would be his too).

"The Savior has to come here, and this child is the only way to make that happen."

"...okay."

Rumplestiltskin's eyes flew open. "Okay?" They could not have children together for another ten years, he was going to hand over the Savior's child to their enemy, make the child miserable on purpose (because Regina would not be a good mother, that he knew) so the Savior would rescue him (rescue them all) and all she could say was 'okay'? "Belle-"

"Regina is not a good person," Belle said, as if he needed to be reminded. Her hand found his, pulled it away from his death grip. "But she was once, wasn't she?"

"Until I came into the picture, yes."

She squeezed his fingers. "You gave her a path. She didn't have to follow it, but she did, and that was her choice. And now she is so far down that path she can't turn back, but maybe this will help her." She smiled softly, sadly (because it did hurt, knowing there would be no child for her to hold, but she knew it needed to be done). "Love can do wonders for anyone." More than anyone, they knew that to be true.

He rested his forehead against hers, his other hand coming to tangle in her hair. "My Belle," he breathed. "Always trying to save everyone." An old monster like him didn't deserve a beauty like her.

"Well," she said, gently nudging his nose with hers, "I have always been fond of heroics." She let the smile go, because she didn't need to pretend with him, and she understood why this hurt him because it hurt her too. "Do what you have to, Rumplestiltskin. The curse has to be broken so we can find Bae. And that? That _must_ be done."

So we can find Bae.

_We_.

"We will find your son," she said, no room for denial or doubt. "It will all be okay in the end."

Many things ran through Rumplestiltskin's mind, his heart unused to feeling so much, so he kissed her softly, tried to tell her without words, even when he used three that always made her smile. "I love you."

It was all he had to offer her, but she took it readily, happily, and gave him her love in return.

"I love you, too," she said, like always.

And Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, whose soul was said to be so black that he was actually the devil himself, who snatched children away from their mothers, felt warmth at her light.

* * *

~Epilogue~

"I have something for you," he said, taking her hand.

Belle smiled, bouncing on her toes. "Oh?"

"Yes, but first you have to close your eyes." She raised a brow, eyeing him suspiciously. "It's a surprise," he told her, tapping the end of her nose with a finger. "No peeking."

With a shake of her head, Belle complied to his demands and blocked her view of the world, her hand resting trustingly in his. He led her down the street and around the corner, Belle only vaguely aware of the directions changing but having no idea where they were.

"Richard, where are we going?" she asked, hearing him open a door.

"You'll see. You're not peeking, are you?" Rumplestiltskin asked, waving a hand in front of her face to be sure.

"No," she laughed. "What's going on?"

The door shut behind her, the feeling of the wind dancing across her skin and the smell of fresh air being cut off to be replaced with a friendly musty smell and the undeniable odor of fresh paint. It was dark, no light dancing across her eyelids, but Rumplestiltskin's hand was firmly in hers, his warmth barely an inch from her.

"Keep your eyes closed," he said, releasing her hand to stand behind her. She felt him nod (there were others here, she could hear them moving around), and then suddenly there was light, the sound of what could only be curtains being drawn back. She turned to the feeling of each sunbeam, smiling at the warmth.

"Can I open them now?"

His hand ran through her hair, coming to rest at the small of her back. "Alright," he said. "Now."

Belle opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the sudden brightness.

Then she gasped.

There were books _everywhere_. Floor to ceiling shelves on the walls, aisles of shelves all around her, shelves on the floor, all filled to the brim with books. There were books on the desk, books on the tables. There was a second story visible from where she was standing, a winding staircase leading up to a wide open room positively overflowing with books.

"A library," she breathed, knowing she was smiling and gaping and couldn't be bothered to care.

"Do you like it?"

"It's wonderful!" She turned, hugged him tight, laughing. "I've never seen so many books in my entire life," she said, releasing him to embrace Ruby and Mary Margaret in turn.

"Good," Ruby said. "We spent two weeks building this place, so you'd better be freaking happy."

"You guys did all of this?" Belle turned in a circle, trying to look at everyone and everything at the same time. "Together?"

"It was his idea," Mary Margaret said, nodding to the smiling man behind him.

"And his checkbook," Graham added with a laugh, nudging Richard with his elbow.

"Aye, my idea and I paid for the materials, but it's all yours, love." Rumplestiltskin dangled a key ring from his fingers, _library_ etched into the metal, which he tossed to her.

Belle nearly knocked Archie over in her excitement. "You gave me a library? Oh my- I have a library!" She couldn't stop smiling, turning to Rumplestiltskin again, her embrace tight. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

Rumplestiltskin's arms came around her waist, light pressure from shaking arms, a deep breath to draw courage, and he'd never been more afraid, more nervous in his entire life. "There's more," he said, kissing her cheek.

"More?" Belle blinked, looked around to take it all in. "But this is... this is more than I could have ever imagined. What else could you _possibly_ give me?"

The group was quiet, unsure, because Richard had asked them to help with the library, and that was it. Whatever else he had planned was all him, they had no idea what he was doing (because he was Gold and no one ever knew what he was thinking).

"Me," he said simply, Belle's hand in his.

And he took a single step back.

And got down on one knee.

Ruby's hand flew to her mouth, holding in her shriek. Mary Margaret felt the tears spring to her eyes, her smile so wide it hurt, and the two women grasped each other's hands, nearly vibrating with excitement. Graham and Archie exchanged grins, suspisions confirmed.

Belle knew she was crying and smiling and laughing and shaking all at once and that it probably wasn't the best look, but she didn't care because if he was, if this really was what she thought it was-

"Belle," Rumplestiltskin began, pulling out a ring he'd been carrying with him for months, the diamond sparkling in the sunlight, very aware of his heart hammering in his chest. "You promised me forever. And I'm giving it to you, if you'll have it. If you'll have me." His hands were shaking, his eyes full of hope and joy, the ring slipping onto her finger perfectly, gliding against her skin to rest easily behind her knuckle. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes." She knelt then, lowered herself to his level, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, laughing through her tears. "Yes, Richard, yes."

Ruby let out a loud squeal, jumping up and down in glee. "It's about damn time!" she declared.

Belle turned to kiss him, her lips against his ear, her voice barely a murmur. "Yes, Rumplestiltskin, yes."

They stood together, arms around each other, unsure who was smiling more, him or her, their friends converging around them, laughter and tears mixing, congratulations offered to them both, nothing but sheer _joy_ encompassing them all.

Rumplestiltskin held Belle close.

In ten years, the Savior would come.

In ten years, the curse would be broken.

Then he and his wife would leave this town to find the rest of their family, and the picture (and then he) would finally, _finally_ be complete.

Forever with Belle, with his son, the two people he loved more than anything (more than magic, more than power, more than his own life, his own power) in all of the worlds. He'd do it right this time, and maybe, just maybe, the beast and the beauty could live happily ever after.

After all, what's a fairytale without a happy ending?

* * *

**A/N: **And they all lived happily ever after! For the next ten years anyways... *evil author laugh* BECAUSE THEN EMMA ROLLS INTO TOWN AND MESSES WITH EVERYTHING BECAUSE SHE CAN! AHAHAHAHA! Like I said previously, this story is done, THIS WORLD is not. There might be a oneshot sequel in the future for Mr. and Mrs. Gold (because I am dying to write a story as if Belle has been in the show the entire time and Emma meets Mister Devoted Husband Who's Also This Sneaky Little Bastard We All Know And Love) but life has to leave me alone for a while first. It's such a bully.

Thanks for reading! :D


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